


Pale Skin And Fragile Bone

by MyChemicalRachel



Category: My Chemical Romance, Scream (Movies), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, But with Teen Wolf characters, Cool Vampires, Hunters, Multi, Murder Mystery, My Chemical Romance are vampires, Nobody sparkles, Twilight AU, Vampires, Werewolves, cameo by Eric Bittle, he owns a pie shop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Stiles was looking forward to being uprooted and shipped cross country, but he knew why his father was doing it. He knew that living in the house his mother died in was hard for both of them. So when Stiles makes his way from sunny Beacon Hills, California to some dreary town in nowhere New Jersey, he makes the best of it. He doesn't really have a choice. But when he starts to realize that the locals aren't exactly normal, his whole life is turned upside down and he's forced to question everything he believes, everything he thought was real. Because his new friends aren't just unusual. They're not human.</p><p>[FORGET EVERYTHING YOU THOUGHT YOU KNEW.<br/>Forget everything you know about Teen Wolf. Forget everything you know about Supernatural. Forget Twilight. Forget everything, because this is AU for a reason. In this, everything changes.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. .One.

The house felt vacant, suffocating, desolate, and overwhelming all in a single breath. It still smells like her, Stiles notices. It doesn’t smell like the inside of the hospital had. The scent of caramel and lilac filter through the empty rooms, trailing him closely as he takes in the last lingering glances.

When his mother got sick last year, she stopped doing routine housework. The doctors explained that the dementia made her forget things, sometimes even made her imagine new things completely. She forgot Stiles on more than one occasion, her own son. At first, he was bitter, but then it faded into nothing more than a terrible sadness. He took it upon himself to do everything for her-- Cooking, cleaning, making sure his mother was comfortable and content, as well as she could be anyway. That’s why the house still smells like her, the candle in the corner filling the kitchen with a sweet smell of caramel while the cleaning supplies adds a hint of floral aroma. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that she’s still here with him instead of rotting away in a box six feet under the ground.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, making Stiles jump and twist away from the unexpected touch. Behind him, John offers a pitiful smile. “You ready to go?” His father asks.

Stiles takes one last look around the kitchen. It’s empty, just like his voice when he nods and says, “Yeah. I’m ready.”

The only good thing Stiles can really find in moving himself, his belongings, and his father across the country is the fact that he’s taking his Jeep with them. John didn’t actually own a car, if he’s not counting Stiles’-- He never really had a need for one being the Sheriff, he could just take a patrol car wherever he went. So when John nearly begged Stiles to just take a plane from California to New Jersey, Stiles had a rational explanation as to why he should drive. It’s not like they could just leave their only vehicle behind in a different state. Then, John offered to go with him. And Stiles loves his dad, he really does, but driving across the country on his own sounds more enticing than he cares to admit. He could use the time alone in his own head, in his own car, without anyone bothering him. He needed time to mourn Claudia’s death in his own private way.

If he drives straight on, only stopping when in dire need of rest, Stiles should make it the near three-thousand miles in three days, tops. But if he’s being honest with himself, he wants to drag out his little road trip for as long as possible. So he opts for the scenic route instead. He wants to soak up the last remaining drops of sunlight before heading northeast to New Jersey-- It rains there, Allison told him. And he’s not an idiot, of course he knows that it rains. What she meant was, it rains _a lot_. And _snows_. Living in Beacon Hills his entire seventeen years of life, the only snow Stiles ever saw was when Allison’s family invited him to that ski resort in Truckee when they were fifteen.

The first night on the road comes and goes. It’s only when the sun is beginning to rise, and he’s somewhere in Idaho he thinks, that he pulls over into a Walmart parking lot and leans the front seat back. His eyes are only closed for a few seconds when his phone is chirping with an incoming call. Fearing it’s his dad, he answers on the second ring.

“Did you know that cats can make over a hundred different sounds, but dogs can only make ten?”

Stiles rolls his eyes without even bothering to open them. “Hi, Allison,” He deadpans.

His best friend either can’t hear his greeting or chooses to ignore it, rambling on instead with her previous statement. “That’s crazy, right? They basically have their own language. Never trust a cat,” She warns him.

Stiles is usually fine with this-- It’s a common thing for Allison to call him and inform him of whatever random facts she’s learned for the day, and vice versa-- but right now, Stiles’ head is beginning to hurt. He brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Cats talk a lot, good to know,” He sighs. “Look, I’ve been driving for the past twenty hours and I’m about to crash. Not like crash the Jeep,” He shakes his head when he realizes what he said, sighing again. “But I’m tired. I’m gonna call you whenever I get to Bumfuck.”

“Belleville,” Allison corrects, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Alright. Don’t crash the Jeep, don’t trust any cats, and tell Sheriff I say hi.”

Stiles decides best not to correct her, calling John _sheriff_. Technically, he’s not the sheriff anymore, hasn’t been since his wife passed away two months ago. He’d left the department on his own accord, but some people didn’t seem to lose the respect they held for him, and so the title stayed.

Stiles doesn’t get much sleep there, in the middle of the parking lot, but it’s got less to do with the increase of cars outside and more to do with the way his mind doesn’t seem to shut off. When he closes his eyes, he can see his mother’s face, the way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled or how she used to brush her fingers through his hair and hum whenever he was upset. Then he remembers how she looked towards the end. Her blonde hair was tangled and ratted, sticking up in every direction. Her pupils were huge. Her smile never really seemed the same, lacking the shimmer of hope it always used to hold.

It’s not even an hour later when Stiles shifts the seat back to a sitting position, reaching into the duffle bag he has strewn across the seat next to him. He finds his bottle of Adderall and tugs the cap off, pouring one into his hand and swallowing the pill dry, and then he pulls the Jeep back out onto the road.

The trip from Beacon Hills to Belleville is supposed to take almost forty-five hours, and with pit stops at gas station bathrooms and drive-thrus at local fast food joints, Stiles manages to make the drive in fifty. He pulls over twice more in an attempt to sleep, but rest doesn’t come easy. The medicine he takes for his ADHD only causes him to be more restless and hyper, and added to the Redbull he pours into his coffee, he’s beyond sleep.

It’s nearing sunset when he pulls the old blue Jeep into the driveway. The air around him feels cool, chilling him straight to the bone. Stiles blames it on the air, at least. The house in front of him is smaller than the one the Stilinski’s owned back in California-- Then again, without Claudia around, Stiles and John didn’t need near as much room. It was just the two of them now.

The house is quiet and dark, save for a single stream of light coming from an upstairs room, as Stiles fishes out the new key his dad gave him. The lock gets stuck. It takes almost five minutes to get the key out of the door and then he tries again, this time succeeding in pushing the door open.

The first thing Stiles notices is the stench that seems to permeate every room. The scent of alcohol is strong in his lungs, but it’s mixed with something else, something he can’t quite place. It reeks of sadness and solitude, and kind of like mold. That empty scent that the walls seem to practically absorb when no one lives there.

Just as Stiles expected, there’s an open and almost empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table. As he was driving across the country, mourning Claudia’s death, John had been doing the same in his own way. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat when he closes the bottle and stuffs it under the sink.

It takes three trips to unpack the bags and boxes he has loaded into the Jeep, but Stiles eventually makes his way up the stairs with his own belongings, finding the room his dad had left open for him. His bed is set up in the corner, an empty bookshelf lining the wall across from that, and on the other side of the room is a desk. Stiles frowns. It looks almost like his bedroom in Beacon Hills. He assumes John had the movers put things this way to make Stiles feel more at home, but this isn’t home. Home is three-thousand miles west. This is hell, it’s a new house in a strange town, and no matter how the furniture is arranged, Stiles knows nothing will ever be the same.

Still, he understands. Stiles wasn’t really given a choice when John decided the best way to deal with Claudia’s passing was to pick up what was left of their little family and ship it across the country. He could fight-- Stiles could scream and throw stuff, trash his new room and purposefully fail classes at his new school. He could call his dad hurtful names, or give him the silent treatment. But Stiles can’t bring himself to do any of those things because what it all boils down to is, John is just trying to do the best he can for his son.

And so Stiles settles with shoving the boxes into the corner of the room, decidedly making them tomorrow’s problem. He pulls clean sheets onto the bed, sighing softly when he breathes in the scent that surrounds the new house. They’re his bedding, he knows this, but it’s all wrong. It doesn’t smell like when his mom did the laundry, it doesn’t feel as warm or comforting.

He sends a quick text to Allison, letting her know that he’s arrived and promising to call her when he gets settled in. He closes his eyes, tries to forget everything and pretend that he’s back in California, imagine that his parents are downstairs together, drinking coffee and laughing happily. But the house echoes nothing back in response, leaving Stiles feeling cold and empty when exhaustion finally drags him to sleep.

**[A/N: So yes, here we are. My first Teen Wolf fanfic. And Twilight AU. With appearances by My Chemical Romance and the Winchesters and Scream characters. What the hell am I doing with my life?**

**Anyways, I’m pretty excited for this fic. It’s not gonna be just like Twilight (obviously) but it will be BETTER. I don’t know if anybody will actually read this, but if you do, PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU LIKE IT. ‘CAUSE COMMENTS MAKE ME HAPPY.**

**Fucking love you. xoRachel]**

 


	2. .Two.

_.Two._

_[A/N: Since I’m using characters from so many different fandoms, just assume everyone is human unless otherwise stated, okay? Just to be safe. Also, I was having such a hard time finding an end for this chapter; It had already surpassed eleven pages when I decided I needed to cut it in half, so it might have a sort of abrupt ending. Oh well.]_

Monday morning in Belleville is rainy, sunless, and looks just about as sad as Stiles feels as he watches a few big droplets streak across his bedroom window. He’s sulking, trying to refrain from just throwing himself from the second floor and being done with it. It’s not a high enough drop to kill him, just leave him with a few broken bones or something. Just enough to keep him home from school for a few more days. But being at home would mean facing the empty house, the stench of John’s binge drinking that is weighing heavier in the new rooms with each passing day.

It’s his eighth day in New Jersey and Stiles is finally mostly settled in-- His clothes are strewn on the floor and his laptop is open on the desk, but all of his other belongings are still packed away in the boxes nestled in the corner. They’ll most likely stay there for a few more weeks to come. It’s like, as long as family photos and old baseball trophies stay in those boxes, Stiles can pretend that it’s not permanent. He can pretend, for just a little longer, that this house is just a temporary home and he can go back to his mother and California soon. It’s a delusion he wants to wrap himself in, and so the boxes stay closed.

There’s a soft knock at the door and Stiles turns his attention away from staring gloomily out the window. John’s head peeks into the room. A minute smile twitches on the corners of his lips, but there’s a tiredness in his eyes that has nothing to do with his lack of sleep.

“You’re awake.” It’s not a question, but Stiles nods once. Another twitch on John’s lips. He leans against the doorway, folding his arms. Instead of a Sheriff’s uniform like Stiles had grown used to seeing his dad wearing, John is dressed in faded jeans and a button up black shirt. “I’m heading in to finish up some paperwork for my transfer.”

John had been a deputy with the Beacon Hills police department for over a decade before being placed as Sheriff. And he’d been a damn good one, too. Moving to Belleville, he’d taken both a demotion and pay cut to become a deputy again, but the transfer had gone rather smoothly-- Such a small town was ecstatic to gain someone with so much experience instead of the usual just-out-of-the-academy amateurs they’re used to.

“School starts today,” John states. He grimaces. “I know it’s not easy for you to change schools for your Senior year. If you want--”

“Dad,” Stiles interrupts, shaking his head and chuckling. “We’ve been over this. I know, you said I could homeschool, but I don’t want to.” He offers a shrug, which he hopes looks convincing. “I think meeting new people will be good for me. Fresh start and all, right?”

John gives something closer to a smile this time and nods his head, straightening up. “Lacrosse tryouts are today.” Stiles face immediately falls, but before he has time to argue or scream _HELL NO I’M NOT TRYING OUT FOR LACROSSE_ , John jabs a finger in Stiles’ direction. “You should hurry up. Don’t be late. And just think about it, okay? You love playing. Maybe I could even come watch some of your games.”

In that one instant, Stiles sees a glimmer of his dad that he hasn’t seen in over two months, since Claudia died. It’s not the hopeless shell of an ex-Sheriff who lost his wife; It’s John Stilinski, cop and dad of an ADHD son with too much sarcasm for his own good. The thought makes Stiles feel slightly better about this whole situation-- Maybe Belleville will be a good change for them after all.

…

By the time Stiles finds his first class, he’s five minutes late and soaked through to the bone. It hadn’t stopped pouring since he left the house and even the short distance from the parking lot to the front entrance had been torrential. Since it’s the first day, he’s not to the only straggler and the teacher takes pity on him, eyeing the way he waddles into the room with wet jeans that emphasize his steps with a _slosh_. She just gestures a finger to the rest of the room and says, “Take a seat.” He does so, letting his backpack fall to the ground next to the desk of his choosing, and then leans back. He sighs, preparing himself for a long day.

Stiles does his best to blend into the background. He doesn’t want to draw any unwanted attention to himself as he sulks in bitter unrest, but somehow the universe just seems to work against him. It’s in his third period that the guy across the aisle from him taps his shoulder. Stiles looks up from his worksheet-- What the hell kind of horrid teacher gives actual work on the first day of school? Apparently the worst trigonometry teacher in the world-- to be met with a bright brown gaze, one eye half-hidden under a sweep of black hair.

The stranger grins. “You’re new, right?” It doesn’t sound like a question, and he doesn’t pause long enough for Stiles to reply. “I’m Pete. Fuck, you have gorgeous eyes. Has anyone ever told you that? And pretty lips. I haven’t seen lips that perfect since Chris Evans’. That man has a mighty fine mouth. What’s your name?”

Stiles blinks a few times, gazing blankly at the guy across from him. Not many people have the talent to render him speechless, but this guy… When he continues to just watch him expectantly, Stiles gives in and tells Pete his name.

“Stiles Stilinski?” He looks unbelieving. “No way. Stiles? What the hell is a Stiles?”

“A nickname,” Stiles admits.

“Oh,” Pete’s mouth falls open. “Then what’s your real name?”

Stiles does this half shrug thing. He’s heard enough people butcher his first name and has taken to avoiding the subject completely. “Something Polish.”

Pete seems content with this answer, nodding. “Well, Stiles Stilinski, I think you and I are going to be great friends.” He grins again. Stiles can’t really explain why, but the gesture is contagious. He didn’t come here expecting to make new friends, he came here to survive High School and please his dad. And yet, the way Pete is watching him is appealing to Stiles, the way it looks secretive and almost disconcerting. But being a cop's son, Stiles had eavesdropped on his fair share of police calls (not to mention actually following his dad to a number of crime scenes) and he had an affinity for smelling bullshit a mile away-- He didn’t sense anything weird from Pete, aside from the lips comment. And as much as he hated to admit it, he could use a friend.

As it turns out, Pete wasn’t the only weird person to jump at the opportunity to befriend Stiles. Fifth period was film class, and the mixture of students was just about as weird as the teacher.

Mr. Dewees had opted for shoving all of the desks against the far wall of the classroom and was sitting cross-legged on the floor. As everyone shuffled in, he gestured for them to join him. When everyone was present and accounted for, the teacher-- who insisted they drop the “mister” and just call him _Dewees_ \-- started to talk. First, he did a little introduction and explained what they would do for the semester in film class; Basically watch, compare, and analyze movies. It sounded simple enough. Then, he said they would be doing a “greeting exercise to get to know each other.”

He breaks the class in half, leaving Stiles across the room from Pete, the only person who’s actually made an effort to talk to him. He’s grouped instead with some kid named Randy, who fidgets in his seat like he’s got to pee, and two guys who introduce themselves as Ed and Harry-- Stiles can’t remember which is which, though one has scruffy ginger hair and a sad attempt at a beard, and the other keeps narrowing his eyes at Stiles like he’s personally offended by his very existence.

Stiles glances across the room to the other group. It doesn’t really surprise him that Pete is already looking his way and the other boy frowns and points to some kid in his own group, widening his eyes and making this mouth-moving gesture with his hand. Stiles stifles a chuckle.

“That your boyfriend?” The question and unfamiliar voice pull Stiles’ attention back to his own group. He looks to his left to see it was the kid who introduced himself as Randy and he’s watching Pete.

Stiles promptly shakes his head. “No. I’m pretty sure he’s stalking me.”

At this, Randy laughs. And then his face falls into what could almost be described as a frown. “Holy shit, that’s Pete Wentz.”

Stiles looks back to Pete, who’s now conversing with his own group. He hadn’t used a last name when Stiles had met him earlier, but Stiles just shrugs. “Yeah. He’s in my trig class third period.”

Randy turns his gaze to Stiles now, eyes wide. “You know, if Mikey catches you giving his boyfriend bedroom eyes like that, he will castrate you.”

Stiles feels his mouth fall open. “I was not giving Pete _bedroom eyes_. And wait, who the hell is Mikey?”

“Are you guys talking about Mikey Way?” Stiles looks up to see Ed and Harry have halted their previous conversation and are now watching the other two with interest. The ginger adjusts his glasses and leans forward, like he’s about to share some big secret. “Dude, you’re new here, right?”

Stiles just nods. “Yeah, I just moved here from California.”

The black-haired boy next to the ginger furrows his brow. “California? You don’t look very tan.”

“My dad is part albino.”

The kid continues to stare at him for a few long seconds before Randy breaks the silence with a soft laugh. A smile tugs on Stiles’ own lips. At least one of these guys has a sense of humor.

The ginger one shakes his head and leans forward again, resuming their original topic when he says, “So you haven’t met the Ways yet? Okay, if there is one thing you need to know about living here; Avoid the Ways at all costs.”

There’s this ominous tone that hangs in his voice, but Stiles is still confused. “Who are the Ways?”

“Mikey and Gerard,” Randy speaks up. “Pete over there is like an honorary Way. Same with Ray and Frank. Technically, only Mikey and Gerard are brothers, but they’re all this big pack. Real tight-knit family, even though they’re not _really_ family.”

“Orphans,” The ginger supplies. “All of them. Wes-- he’s a surgeon at the hospital in Newark-- adopted them. They’ve been together basically forever.”

“Wait,” Stiles waves a hand in the air, like if he moves it fast enough it will just rupture the space time continuum and he can take the conversation back a few minutes. “Why am I supposed to be steering clear of them?”

“Because they’re fucking scary,” Randy states. Ed and Harry both nod in agreement. “Last year, there was this kid-- I think his name was Ryan or something-- and he hit on Pete. It was nothing big, just some casual flirting. But Mikey freaked out-- One second, Ryan was asking Pete for his number, and the next--” Randy swings his hands together dramatically, leaning back. “Kid was on the fucking floor, Mikey was on top of him. It took three teachers to pull them apart. They both got suspended for a few days, but Ryan never came back. Some people said he just moved away, but there was shit all over the news; He vanished. His parents had no clue where he went. They never found his body. But of course, they could never pin it on Mikey either.”

Stiles can feel his eyebrows in his hairline. He works to control the surprise (and intrigue) on his face. “You really think Mikey had something to do with it?”

Randy shrugs, but the smug expression on his face answers the question with a prominent _yes_.

“I wouldn’t pay much mind to him,” The ginger kid says, waving a hand at Randy. “He watches too many horror movies. He’s convinced everyone is a serial killer.”

“Yeah,” The black-haired boy nods along. “See, Ed and I have other theories. Since there was no body ever found, we think it was something more… _supernatural_.”

Stiles feels his eyebrows going up again, this time with a twinge of amusement. “Supernatural,” He repeats. “Like… Ghosts? You think a ghost killed that Ryan kid?”

“ _Ghost_ ,” The ginger-- _Ed_ \-- laughs. He shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. No, of course not. Since there was never a body found, we think that whatever took Ryan _ate_ him.”

Turning this over in his head, Stiles nods slowly. “Succubus?”

Ed perks up at the idea, looking over at Harry. “Succubus. Why haven’t we thought of that?”

“I gotta write that down,” Harry mutters and produces a notebook out of nowhere, flipping to a seemingly random page where he begins scribbling. The two fade off into a series of hushed whispers and fervent nods, falling back into their own conversation. Randy makes small talk with Stiles, veering off from the topic of the missing kid, though Stiles can’t really find it in him to focus. He glances back over to Pete, who is watching him again, this time with a frown. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he would say that Pete heard their entire conversation, but that’s impossible unless Pete has like bionic hearing or something. Still, Stiles files away the information for later. Unlike his newly made acquaintances here, Stiles has access to police records on his father’s laptop and he is not above snooping through the older man’s belongings to satiate his curiosity.


	3. .Three.

Stiles skips lunch. He’s not hungry and his anxiety is making it hard to sit still when all he really wants to do it get the hell out of dodge and hightail it back to the sunny state. But he can’t. The best he can do is work off some of his extra energy-- courtesy of the Adderall he took only an hour before-- by slipping outside when everyone else shuffled to the cafeteria. Stiles finds the lacrosse field abandoned (and wet) when he saunters over.

His mind flashes back, blinding him with memories of the lacrosse field back home, back in Beacon Hills. He can almost perfectly imagine the stick in his hands, the white lights against the black sky, the way his jersey clung with sweat to his skin. He can see his mother in the stands, right next to Allison and her dad, cheering the team on. Allison always made signs with Stiles’ number on it and Claudia would scream and wave and embarrass him, but he didn’t mind because she was his number one fan, even when they lost (which they did more often than not.) Usually patrol would keep John busy, but they always met up after the game and went to a local diner with Allison and her parents, and Claudia would lean across the bench seat and smile at Stiles, tell him how proud she was of her son.

Stiles finds himself in the middle of the field. There’s still a slight drizzle of rain coming down, but it cools him. It doesn’t seem so suffocating as it did earlier this morning. Stiles glances around. There’s no one in sight and the only sound in his ears is that of the wind picking up, but he spots some equipment scattered heedlessly near the bleachers. His heart begins racing and without really thinking, he’s walking toward it. There’s this small part of him that knows that stealing is wrong, but another part of him reasons that he is _borrowing_ , not stealing, and yet another part of him does not give a single fuck even if it is stealing, and so he finds a lacrosse stick and twirls it in his grasp for a moment. When Claudia got sick, playing lacrosse felt wrong-- He was out playing games while his mother was at home dying. And so he quit the team, he swore to himself that he was done playing. And yet, up until last year, lacrosse was his outlet. It was where all of his pent up frustration and energy went-- When he was playing lacrosse, he could practically feel the overwhelming emotions drain out of him.

And so with the stick firmly in his hand, he hikes up a nearby ball, then pummels it in the direction of the net. He misses, but he’s so far outside of bounds that he’s not surprised because he wasn’t really aiming anyway. He takes another ball up and swings it in the same general area, though this time it hits the metal frame of the net with a deafening clank that rings out in his ears.

Stiles scoops up his third ball and wanders over onto the field. Then he just stands there, staring down the net. He closes his eyes, imagining the last game his mom went to-- They won that game, he remembers, and his dad got the night off to come see Stiles play. Allison was cheering him on as usual. He recalls the lights illuminating the field and the way his own breath sounded in his helmet. He takes a few steps forward and throws the ball, reveling in the serenity that washes over him with the swish of the ball hitting the net.

“Hey!” The unexpected voice startles Stiles and he jumps, spins, and drops the lacrosse stick, but he’s been caught red-handed. There, near the other abandoned equipment, stands a kid with scruffy brown hair. There’s a stick in his hand and he’s watching Stiles with an unreadable expression.

“I… I was just… Uh…” Stiles stammers out a few syllables and half-words, but nothing coherent. As the stranger nears, Stiles recognizes amusement on his features.

“Dude, relax,” The kid laughs. “I’m not going to beat you with the stick, alright?” Then he glances at the stick on the ground, the one Stiles had been holding, and makes a face. “But Jackson might if he finds out you’re using his stick. Here.” He tosses the pole he’d been holding to Stiles, who only barely manages to catch it. “I haven’t seen you around before,” He says, reaching down to grab the stick on the ground. “I’m Scott.”

Stiles introduces himself awkwardly, studying the stick in his hands. Near the grip tape, scribbled in Sharpie, it says, “ _McCall_.”

“So you’re new here?” Scott wonders, glancing back at Stiles as he makes his way over to retrieve more balls. “You’re trying out for the team, right?” He scoops a ball up from the sideline and pegs it toward Stiles, who automatically reaches his own net out to catch it. Scott just grins. “You’re good.”

Stiles swallows hard, averting his gaze to shake his head. “No. I don’t play anymore.”

Much to his content, Scott doesn’t push the issue. He simply shrugs. “That’s a shame. I mean, we’re good, but Derek-- he’s our team captain-- is like a freaking slave-driver. Always pushing us to be better, which means better players.”

“He sounds like a joy to be around,” Stiles remarks.

Scott simply laughs and gestures across the field. Stiles takes the hint and glances down at the ball before throwing it into the net. He doesn’t have time to revel in the goal because a voice echoes out across the lacrosse field. “McCall! Where the hell is my fucking stick!?”

Scott and Stiles both look up to see a very angry boy with spiky blond hair storming toward them. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to realize this must be Jackson, the guy whose stick he had originally stolen. Suddenly he’s very grateful that Scott saved him from whatever wrath this dude it about to bring.

“Jackson!” Scott beams at the taller boy, seeming unfazed by his anger. “Did Derek banish you to equipment lackey again?”

Jackson just glares, reaching out to rip his stick out of Scott’s grasp. He shoves the netted part against Scott’s chest. “Don’t touch my shit.” He spins around, turning his scowl on Stiles. Jackson seems to note the stick in his hands and one eyebrow goes up. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m nobody,” Stiles says. “You should ignore me. I’m leaving. I’m--” He goes to return the stick to it’s owner, but he realizes a few more people have entered the field, all watching him with a curious gaze. He feels cornered suddenly and he takes a step back, opting for just tossing the stick to Scott.

“Who’s the new kid?” Someone asks, and Stiles can’t even figure out which guy the voice came from.

“He’s not on the team,” Someone else states obviously. “Coach wouldn’t put a newbie on the team without telling us.”

Another person scoffs. “Yes, he would. That’s exactly the kind of thing Finstock would do.”

“He’s _not_ on the team,” Someone repeats and Stiles recognizes that person as Jackson this time, who steps forward with a frown on his lips. Stiles absently wonders if it’s a permanent expression. “I’m captain of the team--”

“ _Co_ -captain,” Scott interrupts.

Jackson pretends not to hear him, but his jaw tightens. “Coach wouldn’t add some newbie to the team without consulting Derek and I first.”

Some tall guy with dimples just smirks at Jackson. “Maybe he added the newbie without consulting _you_. Derek probably knows.”

Stiles can see the anger ignite like a flare in his eyes when he glares at the boy and then, without giving Stiles a chance to defend himself, Jackson’s challenging scowl is on him. “ _You_. You think you can just show up here and act like you own the fucking field?”

Stiles shakes his head. No, he was not acting like owned anyone's fucking field, he just found an poorly placed lacrosse stick and decided to throw a couple balls around. This isn’t what he had intended at all. But Jackson isn’t listening. Another stick is thrust into Stiles’ grasp and he holds it close with white-knuckled fists. “Well Finstock might have thought you were good enough for the team, but you’re gonna have to prove yourself if you want to _stay_ on the team.”

Is no one listening to him? Stiles looks toward Scott for some sort of support, but the other boy looks ecstatic as he glances between Stiles and Jackson. “Danny!” Jackson shouts, throwing some gloves at the dimpled guy. “In the net.” Then Jackson turns his devious smile on Stiles, which Stiles suddenly finds so much more frightening than his glare. “Come on, newbie. If you can score on me, you’ll earn your stay on the team.”

Stiles turns to find Scott’s face in the crowd again, this time quirking an eyebrow in question and gesturing with the stick to Jackson. “Is he always like this?”

Biting back a grin, Scott offers a shrug. “Usually.”

With a sigh, Stiles throws his arms out in exasperation. “For fucks sake, guys; I’m not actually on the te--” Before the sentence is fully out of his mouth, Stiles is doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping in a sharp breath. Jackson steps back with his stick-- the offending object that just winded Stiles-- and grins. Stiles turns a glare upward to watch Jackson and then twists his own stick in his hands before swinging it forward where it collides painfully with Jackson’s gut. Breathing in deeply, Stiles straightens up and says, “Fine. You want to play? Let’s play.”

Stiles almost forgot the rush he used to feel when he was running across the lacrosse field with a ball in his net. It’s weird playing one-on-one with Jackson, but thrilling. Back in Beacon Hills, he knew his teammates. He knew their moves and their techniques, but with Jackson as his opponent he has no idea what to expect. Stiles manages to drown out most of the cheering in the background, the other members of the team either encouraging Stiles and trashing Jackson, or vice versa. It’s all just buzzing in his ears. He focuses on the way Jackson shifts his body to the left, but angles his toes right, the way he subconsciously moves his stick in the direction he wants to go before he actually moves. It takes a few unexpected tackles, a new hole in his jeans, and one time he actually faceplants so hard he tastes dirt, but eventually Stiles catches onto Jackson’s movements enough to fake left and dodge around him, shoulder-checking the other boy in the process. Stiles darts toward the net, clenching his jaw tightly when he throws the ball. It spirals toward Danny, who dives and falls haplessly to the ground. The ball swishes against the net.

Stiles’ arms go up and he lets loose what should probably be an embarrassing shriek of victory, but he’s not alone. Part of the team swarms around him, offering painful congratulatory slaps on the back while others go to rub the success directly in Jackson’s face. Jackson pushes past the others to thump the end of his lacrosse stick against Stiles’ chest.

“It was a lucky shot,” Jackson insists.

Stiles rolls his eyes, about to remind Jackson again that _HE IS SERIOUSLY NOT ON THE FUCKING TEAM_ but the goalie from before, Danny, steps forward instead, a smile on his face. “Admit it,” He says, nudging Jackson. “He’s good. Give him a few practices and he’ll be better than you.”

Jackson apparently isn’t pleased with the teasing because he shoulders past Stiles and storms, presumably, to the locker rooms. Stiles turns to watch him go, waving at his back before muttering, “Asshole,” under his breath. It’s only then that Stiles spots Scott on the sidelines, but he’s not alone. To his left, with folded arms, is someone who most definitely was not there before. Stiles would remember those eyebrows, the way they tug down almost like they’re frowning. His scowl, encompassing most of the lacrosse field, is focused entirely on Stiles when he starts toward Scott.

“Dude!” Scott beams-- Stiles decides he really likes this kid. He smiles a lot. “That was awesome! Did you see Jackson’s face?! Oh man, he was pissed.” Scott seems to realize the guy beside him is still frowning and it’s making Stiles feel pretty uncomfortable. He introduces Scowly McScowlington as Derek.

“Oh,” Stiles smiles. “The slave-driver.”

Derek glances over to Scott and frowns, but it’s mostly half-hearted because then the scowl is back on Stiles. “You’re not horrible,” He admits, and Stiles figures that is as close to a compliment as he’s going to receive. “Your stance is bad and your techniques are mediocre at best, but your aim is adequate and you’re pretty fast.”

Stiles blinks a few times, trying to decide if he should be flattered or pissed because is this a compliment or an insult? He settles with frowning. “Rude.”

One of Derek’s eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry, if you can’t handle criticism, maybe you should have stayed with the team back in California.”

“I’m not on the damn team--” Stiles starts, but Derek isn’t listening-- No one is fucking listening.

“You’ll need practice,” Derek is saying. “But I think the team could use you. Practice starts at three-thirty exactly. You need to be changed and on the field, ready for warm-ups, on time. If you’re going to be late, don’t bother coming. And McCall, get him his own damn stick.” Derek wretches the stick from Stiles’ grasp and heads off in the direction Jackson had previously wandered.

Stiles is left standing there beside Scott, totally not looking at Derek’s ass as he storms away. Leaning a little closer, Stiles sighs. “You guys realize I’m not actually on the team, right?”

Scott’s response is nothing more than a laugh when the bell rings and he scurries off, without answering the question. “Scott!” Stiles calls after him. “Dammit! I’m not-- _I’m not on the team!_ ”

Stiles sighs again and rubs a hand over his eyes. He wants to pout and maybe hit someone with a lacrosse stick again because why the hell is nobody listening to him? But eventually he just mutters silently and heads back toward the school before he’s late for seventh period.

 


	4. .Four.

Stiles rounds the bleachers only to run directly into Randy. Literally. He stumbles back a step, quickly apologizing, when he realizes Randy isn’t alone. Two guys, one tall and gangly, a wholly entertained shiteating grin on his face, and another somewhat shorter, who shifts his gaze first to Stiles, then to the first boy.

Randy seems distracted, oblivious to the strangers, as he glances back curiously to the lacrosse field Stiles only moments ago had been standing on. He quirks an eyebrow, a somewhat amused, somewhat cautious smirk playing around the corners of his lips. “Man, you are horrible at making friends, you know that?”

Following his gaze back to the field, Stiles sees it vacant of any other beings. “Huh?”

“Derek Hale,” The gawky boy states, like just the name will explain everything. He lets out a strange chuckle that matches his crooked smile.

“Derek Hale is not the kind of friend you want to make,” Randy elaborates, if only slightly. He starts wandering toward the school building and Stiles follows, the strangers trailing behind. “Or enemy, for that matter. First you make buddy-buddy with Pete Wentz, and now Derek? Do you have a deathwish?”

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to raise an eyebrow. “He comes off as a dick,” He admits. “Kind of intimidating with the constant scowling thing, but he seems pretty harmless.”

“ _Harmless_ ,” The second guy scoffs. His smile is just as crooked, just as _off_ , as the first kid. “You don’t know him very well, do you?”

Stiles furrows a brow. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Billy Loomis,” Randy introduces the second boy, then waves a hand at the first. “Stu Macher.” He hitches the backpack on his shoulder a little higher, refocusing back on the topic at hand. “But Billy’s right. You should stay away from Derek. He may seem pretty harmless at first, but that man is no teddy bear. He’s _dangerous_.”

“He got arrested last year for murder.” And the casual tone of Billy’s voice startles Stiles just about as much as the words themselves. He finds his steps skipping a beat and he has to remind himself that he’s going to be late for class if he doesn’t keep walking.

“No way.” He looks to Randy for some form of reassurance, his eyes bulging. “Seriously? No, there’s no way. He’d be in jail, right?”

Randy chuckles, a sadistic sound. “He was for a while, but they could never pin anything on him so they had to let him go.”

They’re in the hallway now and Stiles tries his best to stick close to Randy and the others amidst the surging crowd of students. “Then what makes you so sure he even killed anyone?”

“She was found on the nature preserve; Hale property, only a mile or so off from his house,” Billy says as Randy stops at a locker and Stiles waits next to his new acquaintances, captivated.

Randy spins around with a textbook in his hand, slams the locker shut, and continues walking. “That’s true,” He allows with an unconvinced shrug. “But it’s a nature preserve-- There are all kinds of wild animals lurking around out there. But have you ever heard of a coyote burying its victim after devouring half of it? I think not.”

“Even weirder still,” Billy interrupts. “Is the way she was cut in half. No animal did that. It was done with a blade or something, definitely.”

Stu snorts. “Maybe it was some freaky threesome thing,” He suggests. “Her, Derek, and the coyote. When the animal flipped shit and killed her, he had to hide the evidence.”

Billy chuckles at the assumption of bestiality and Randy offers his own little eye-roll and half-hearted noise of protest. “Personally, I think he’s just psychotic. Nobody cares how it happened, but everyone knows he’s at fault. He probably got off the hook because his uncle is loaded and paid off the local fuzz so his precious nephew wouldn’t get life in prison.”

Stiles frowns. He wants to know more, a motive behind whatever bizarre crime Derek may or may not have committed. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. But he gets the feeling that Randy is just as clueless as anyone, so instead he asks, “Who was it Derek supposedly killed?”

Randy stops in the middle of the hall to look at Stiles dead on, smirking evilly. “Laura Hale.”

“Hale…” Stiles repeats, recognizing the name.

Randy just nods and grins. “His own fucking sister.”

And then Randy wanders into his classroom, Stu and Billy dispersing behind him, leaving Stiles standing in the hallway, lost and baffled for a long moment. The bell rings and Stiles curses under his breath, turning around in search of his own class.

As it turns out, Mr. Harris is not as lenient as his first period teacher when Stiles roams into Physics one full minute late. The teacher frowns. “You must be Stilinski.”

Stiles nods once.

“Do I even want to ask why you’re late?” Harris gives Stiles a look that shows no humor, a bit of impatience, and a lot of fatigue.

Stiles cracks a smile. “I was reconsidering my life choices and contemplating the the pros and cons of dropping out of High School to become a millionaire masked vigilante.”

A couple chuckles sound throughout the class, but Mr. Harris still isn’t amused. “Perhaps you can debate it further in detention. Sit.” He points his pen in the direction of a lab table to the left, already occupied in half by a lanky kid with mousy brown hair sticking out from under a gray beanie.

The stranger glances at Stiles when he sits down with a huff. They make awkward eye contact. Stiles wants to look away from the kid’s brilliant hazel gaze, dulled only behind the glare of glasses. It’s like looking down the barrel of a loaded gun in a way with the vacant expression and unblinking eyes. Cold, hard, unemotional. This kid has one hell of a poker face. Eventually Stiles has to blink and when he opens his eyes the stranger is smirking. It’s not much of a change, but one corner of his lips is raised only barely. The boy hums softly and looks back down at the desk, seeming to forget Stiles’ existence and their weird stare-down in an instant.

Mr. Harris pushes his chair back, the legs screeching obnoxiously against the tile floor. Walking to the blackboard, he starts scrawling down mostly illegible notes, instructing everyone to copy them. Stiles finds a clean sheet of paper within his notebook and starts scribbling away. He glances over to his lab partners own paper and tiny, neat writing. In the right corner reads the name, Mikey Way.

Stiles can’t contain the snort that escapes him. Mr. Harris takes notice, shooting him a glare, and the boy next to him looks up. One eyebrow goes up behind his black framed glasses.

Stiles clears his throat and forces his hand to continue writing. This doesn’t make sense. This awkward, lanky kid with glasses and a half-lit gaze is Mikey Way? The guy Randy warned him about? Stiles can’t imagine this boy lifting anything heavier than a textbook, let alone pinning someone to the ground and beating the shit out of them.

Stiles glances over again, convinced he misread the name. But just as his eyes dart over to the paper, he hears Mikey sigh heavily. “You’re cheating? On _notes_?”

He’s miffed. Stiles is not cheating, no. He is lurking. There is a distinct difference. But he fixes Mikey with a steady gaze. “You’re Mikey?”

One of Mikey’s eyebrows goes up again. Stiles absently wonders how people do that, like control only one of their eyebrows. He’s partially convinced he was born with a unibrow because his eyebrows work as one entity, one muscle. One goes up, the other follows it. Mikey continues watching him for a long time, narrows his eyes a bit, and then abruptly goes back to copying his notes like a good little pupil, leaving Stiles gaping at him, without a response, feeling sort of offended.

When Stiles eventually gives up and goes back to his own notes, he can feel someone watching him. He looks up at Mikey first, thinking it might be him, but Mikey’s gaze is deliberately fixed on the table. He tries to ignore it, the sensation like someone’s scowl is physically boring into his back, but it’s worrying. He twists around in his seat (very subtly, of course) and that’s when Stiles spots him; Sitting in the back of the room, definitely scowling at him, is Derek Hale. When their eyes meet, Derek’s jaw tightens and, if possible, his glare only hardens.

“Mr. Stilinski!” The name jerks his attention to the front of the class where Harris is watching him. The teacher gestures to the board. “Pay attention.”

And he does. Stiles keeps his eyes intently focused on either the words on the blackboard or his own scrawled handwriting for the rest of the class. The period passes slowly, agonizingly so, as he can feel Derek’s eyes on him the entire time. When the bell finally rings, Stiles gathers his belongings and bolts as fast as he can out of the room.

The remaining classes drag on. Stiles is ecstatic when the day finally comes to an end, shoving his new textbooks into a locker that is already feeling cramped and messy, and then meandering in the direction of the parking lot. Some of the cars are clearing out, students gathering in cliques and gangs scattered all around on the wet grass and asphalt.

Stiles finds his Jeep easily, tucked snugly between a rusted Toyota and a sleek black Camaro. He’s just throwing his backpack into the Jeep, retrieving his keys from his pocket, when a hand lands on his shoulder. Stiles would never admit to the fact that he jumps about twelve feet in the air at the contact, spinning around with a pounding heart and wide eyes only to be met with a chocolate brown gaze, an amused smile.

“Scott, what the hell, man!?” Stiles straightens his jostled plaid shirt and a sigh leaves his lips.

Scott laughs at him. “Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Stiles replies defiantly. “You surprised me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott rolls his eyes. “Look-- Wait, you’re not leaving are you?” He glances at the Jeep and frowns. “I know you said that you don’t play lacrosse anymore, but how you showed up Jackson like that was freakin’ awesome. Even Derek was impressed.”

“ _That_ was impressed?” Stiles asks doubtfully.

Scott nods, but he looks kind of wary himself. “He’s tough,” Scott admits. “On all of us. The first time he saw me play, he compared my skills to a potato. But he likes you, I can tell. And he thinks you’ll be a good addition to the team.” Stiles only stares at him, disbelieving, so eventually Scott sighs. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for giving up lacrosse, but I think it would be good for you. I saw you playing today, you loved it.”

And Stiles hates to admit it, but Scott is right; Playing today, if only for a short time, was freeing. It brought back good memories and it cleared his head of the bad. “Fine,” He grabs his backpack from the Jeep and flings it back over his shoulder, gesturing for Scott to lead the way. “I’ll go to one practice. One. And I make no guarantee that I’ll join the team.”

Still, Scott looks pleased. He leads Stiles back past the lacrosse field, to the locker rooms. He shows him a vacant locker he can put his stuff in and even offers Stiles a change of shorts and T-shirt, since Stiles obviously did not come prepared.

When he’s changed and out on the field, Stiles takes in the people around him. He sees Scott and the goalie from earlier, Danny. Jackson is on the sidelines, conversing with a middle-aged man who Stiles recognizes as his Economics teacher-- Coach Finstock. There are a few other vaguely familiar faces, but none of which Stiles knows the names of. Derek is nowhere to be seen, not that he’s looking of course.

It’s not until after warm-ups are finished and the players are lined up, taking shots at Danny in the net, that Derek decides to show up to practice. Late. Stiles wants to make a remark about how Derek should follow his own rules and at least show up on time, but he’s up to shoot and everyone is waiting. He twists the stick in his hands so hard his palms almost burn with the friction of the tape. Narrowing his eyes at Danny, Stiles flexes his fingers. He focuses. Takes a deep breath, a few steps, and then he pummels the ball forward. His aim is good, his speed fast, but Danny is faster. On the one hand, Stiles can easily see why Danny had been appointed goalie, but at the same time, he feels the familiar wave of disappointment at the missed goal. But that’s why he’s here; Practice.

Stiles is about to admit defeat and head to the back of the line again when Derek steps onto the field. He stops right next to Stiles, gazing up and down his body. Then he points to another ball. “Pick it up.”

Stiles immediately follows the directions. He waits.

“Now throw it,” Derek commands.

After a second of hesitation, Stiles twists his stick, breathes, steps forward, and throws again. And just like last time, Danny catches it.

“You’re predictable,” Derek states. “In a real game, you’ll have the upper hand because you’re already moving. Standing still like this, your stance makes your moves predictable, which means Danny can tell where in the net your ball will land. He knows where to block before you even throw.”

Stiles looks down at his own body, taking in his posture. He fidgets on his feet nervously.

Derek reaches out, grabbing onto Stiles’ shoulders. Angling Stiles so they’re almost facing, he looks down. “Move your feet apart a little.” Stiles does. “Don’t move them. When you shoot, twist your torso. Leave your feet where they are. Shoot with your upper body.” Derek takes a step back and nods for Stiles to try again. He scoops up another ball, inhaling deeply, and then does as he’s told. This time, Danny dodges left and the ball swooshes right.

Stiles feels a grin stretch across his lips and Danny gives him a thumbs up after climbing to his feet. There’s a small twitch on Derek’s lips, but it’s gone so quickly Stiles thinks he might have imagined it. He almost expects Derek to say something like _good job_ , but Derek only offers a curt nod. “Keep practicing.” And it’s not exactly praise, but Stiles thinks it’s definitely progress.

In the back of the line, Stiles is met with Scott’s beaming face. “He’s proud,” Scott informs him. “Derek, I mean. He’s proud of you. I know you can’t tell, but I know him enough to tell that face. He likes you.”

Stiles only chuckles at that. “Yeah, he acts like it.” He rolls his eyes, and that’s when he spots someone on the bleachers. They had been vacant up until this point but when he looks over now he sees two strangers talking animatedly near the top. “Who the hell is that?”

“Who?” Scott practically breaks his neck, twisting it to see who Stiles is seeing.

Stiles points a finger. “The strawberry blonde goddess on the bleachers,” He states. “Holy shit, she’s looking over here.”

Actually, both of the strangers are now looking Stiles’ direction, both the strawberry blonde girl and the dark skinned boy. He thinks he should probably look away, be embarrassed to be caught staring, but they’re smiling at him and he can’t find the capacity to care because he’s captivated.

“Lydia Martin,” Scott explains. “She’s basically our number one fan. She comes to all the games and cheers us on. She’s also hooked up with nearly everyone on the team.”

Now it’s Stiles who almost breaks his neck turning a wide-eyed gaze on his friend. “Have you…?”

He pretends not to notice the way Scott’s face darkens as he coughs awkwardly and then gestures to the boy on the bleachers. “And that’s Mason Hewitt. He’s a Junior, but he’s practically the male version of Lydia.”

Stiles is well aware of the eyes on him for the remainder of practice. When Coach Finstock finally tells them they’re free to go home-- reminding them that the lineup for the team would be announced tomorrow-- Stiles is ready to collapse. And he does, right in the middle of the field. He lies back on the grass and closes his eyes. He hates this, he realizes, but he also missed it more than he cares to admit. He missed the burn in his muscles after a good workout of running up and down the field, he missed the release of energy, and the way his mind is almost totally silent as he’s winding down.

“Stiles. Dude, are you alive?”

Stiles only groans in response, but he feels Scott kick his leg. He groans again.

“Lydia’s coming this way,” Scott says, and that jerks Stiles into motion. He sits up immediately to see that Scott was right; Lydia and Mason are headed directly toward him. He pushes himself to his feet and wipes off his shorts.

Lydia is even more gorgeous up close when her lips curl up in a red painted smirk. “You’re new,” She states. “I would definitely remember seeing you around.”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. And then nods. “I mean, yeah. I’m new here. To this school. And state. But not to the team. I would be, if I were actually on the team. But I’m not. On the team, I mean. I’m not on the team.” He mentally berates himself for his rambling, forcing himself to shut up.

Lydia just chuckles, this sweet sound. Stiles thinks he should make some weird comparison, how it sounds like honey or rain or something as equally corny, but he just swoons at the laugh. “That’s a shame,” She says. “I’m a pretty big fan. And I think the team finds I’m extremely influential.” She reaches out to run a few fingers down Stiles’ chest. He bites down roughly on his lip. “I offer some very good incentive if they win.” Then she pulls her hand back abruptly, shrugging. “But if you’re not part of the team, you don’t want to hear about that.”

Stiles wants to kick himself when he shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Lineup is announced tomorrow. I won’t know if I’m part of the team until then. But you know, I am totally down with some one-on-one practice time.”

Lydia’s seductive smirk returns, but before she has the chance to say anything, Mason’s lower lip juts out. “All the cute ones are straight,” He pouts.

Stiles looks over to the younger boy, allowing his eyes to roam over his face and then body. “No, no,” Stiles argues. “I am totally versatile.”

The returning smile Mason gives him makes Stiles’ own grin widen. He wants to hang out and flirt some more because trying out for the lacrosse team is way better in his mind if he ends up playing _and_ getting laid. But suddenly someone grabs onto the back of his shirt and Stiles is being dragged in the opposite direction. Stiles stumbles, almost falling as he tries to twist around to see who is manhandling him. He looks up to see it’s Derek.

“Dude!” Stiles protests. He turns around so he’s walking forward, not that he could actually stop with the death grip still on his shirt. “What the hell?!”

“Rule number one,” Derek states. Stiles can see the way his jaw clenches. Hell, this close he can see the stubble on Derek’s cheeks. He tries not to think about how close they are right now and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. “Lacrosse comes first. Lydia and Mason are a distraction. You allow yourself to get distracted, you make mistakes.”

“Practice is over, big guy,” Stiles argues, but allows himself to be pulled along. “I’m allowed to have distractions outside of practice. I don’t think my extracurricular activities are any of your concern.”

“They’re my concern if they interfere with lacrosse,” Derek retorts.

Stiles stops walking. The hold Derek has on his shirt makes the other man stop, too. They stand there for a long second, just glowering at each other. “You’re used to bossing people around,” Stiles finally states. “You like having things go your way. You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?”

Derek just continues to glare.

Stiles nods slowly. “Control freak,” He continues. “Slave driver, like Scott said. But I’ve always had a problem with authority, Derek. So how about this? You’re captain of the lacrosse team. When it comes to lacrosse, you can boss me around as much as you damn well please. But outside of lacrosse, I do whatever-- and _whoever_ \-- I want. Deal?”

Without a response, Stiles turns on his heels and heads in the direction of the locker rooms. He expects Derek to yell at him, tackle him to the ground, make him eat dirt for his words, but Stiles reaches the locker room unscathed. Just as he’s pulling open the door to go inside, he finally hears Derek shout, “Three-thirty tomorrow, Stilinski. And don’t be late!”

 

 


	5. .Five.

Pete is acting weird. And okay, Stiles knows he’s only known the kid for a day, but he can tell as soon as he enters the classroom third period that something is different with him. He keeps glancing nervously at Stiles. He chews on his bottom lip like it’s a piece of bubblegum and there’s an incessant clicking as his fingers tap on the trig textbook. And Stiles knows what anxiety looks like-- he’s riddled with the emotion. But he just can’t seem to figure out what’s making Pete fidget like that.

Stiles waits for crude comments about his mouth, like the day before, or for Pete to ramble on about how horrible the assignment is (because that’s just the kind of person he seems to be) but Pete says nothing. He casts a small smile, which is really more of a grimace, in his direction when Stiles greets him. Nothing else.

When the bell rings, Pete has quickly gathered his belongings and is almost out the door when Stiles finally catches up. “Hey,” Stiles reaches out to touch Pete’s arm, but thinks better of it and pulls back. He falls into step beside Pete, not really caring that the library where he’s supposed to be heading is in the opposite direction. “Dude, are you okay?”

Pete blinks, swallows hard, and nods stiffly. With another fake smile plastered onto his face, he says, “Yeah, totally.” Stiles continues watching him, clearly not convinced. Eventually, Pete stops dead in his tracks and gazes at Stiles, really meets his eyes, for the first time. Other students brush past them, a few bumping shoulders with Stiles, but his focus is only on the other boy, who sighs. “No, I’m not. And I really don’t feel like sitting through English. Do you want to skip next period?”

This is a bad idea, Stiles knows. It’s only the second day of school, his  _ new  _ school, in his last year. Skipping class isn’t really something he does. But looking at the pained expression now showing clearly on Pete’s face, he realizes he actually wants Pete to be his friend. For some bizarre reason, he cares if Pete is alright. Besides, he reasons, it’s only study hall he’ll be skipping.

So Stiles nods, allowing Pete to lead him down the long corridor. He drops his books at his locker and then follows Pete outside. The morning was humid and it had been drizzling on and off, but it’s not raining when they find a dry place to sit beneath the bleachers.

Stiles watches as Pete retrieves a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his backpack, holding it out in offering to Stiles. He doesn’t take one, but Pete lights one up anyway. Pete lies back in the grass and inhales silently.

“Mikey and I had a fight,” Pete finally admits. His voice is low, like he doesn’t want his words to be overheard though they’re the only ones out here. Stiles wants to prompt for more, but he’s not sure how much Pete is willing to share. So he simply waits. After a few more quiet drags, Pete sits up abruptly. “I love him,” He says. And then laughs humorlessly, flicking the cigarette away. “But sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t even realize I’m there unless he needs something.” He picks at a piece of grass on his jeans, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

“What did you fight about?” Stiles wonders. He’s a curious kid.

But it surprises him when Pete glances up and mumbles, “You.”

Honestly, Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that. But then he remembers the story about Ryan, and how Mikey allegedly beat the shit out of him just for hitting on Pete. Did Mikey think  _ Stiles  _ liked Pete? Oh god, Stiles is going to get the living hell beaten out of him just for being friends with Pete. In theory, he could probably kick Mikey’s scrawny ass, but he doesn’t really want to put that theory to the test.

“Gerard and Frank are perfect together,” Pete continues, interrupting Stiles’ internal ramblings. Stiles is sort of glad for the divergence, focusing the point back on someone rather than himself. “I’m not saying I believe in soulmates or something, but if it was real? It would be them. And I used to think Mikey and I had the same thing.” When Pete looks up, Stiles can see the sadness on his features and it suddenly saddens Stiles too. “Do you think people can fall out of love?”

Stiles is silent, contemplating for a long time because he isn’t really sure what he thinks on the matter. Eventually, he offers a shrug. “Maybe. But I think, if people love each other enough, they grow together. Not apart.”

Pete is nodding slowly, turning that over in his head. Then he smiles. “I think Mikey loves me. I  _ know  _ he does. Sometimes he just has a really shitty way of showing it.”

The heaviness of the conversation fades away after that and Pete returns to his usual cheerful self. When the bell rings and they make their way back into the building, Pete says, “You should eat lunch with me today. I looked for you yesterday, but you disappeared.”

“I wasn’t really hungry,” Stiles admits. “I was hanging out on the lacrosse field.”

Pete freezes in the middle of the hall, frowning. “You play lacrosse?”

Stiles keeps walking, forcing Pete to keep moving if he wants to finish the conversation. “Not really,” Stiles says. “I mean, sort of. But I’m not on the team or anything.”

Pete visibly relaxes. “So it’s settled,” He states, grinning. “You’ll do with me at lunch today.”

And no, Stiles never actually agreed to that, but before he has a chance to say so, Pete is pulling him into film class and rushing to take his own seat.

 

As soon as the class is over, Pete is next to Stiles again, this time pulling him from the room and down the hall, past the cafeteria, straight out the front doors. There’s a patch of grass and a few picnic tables clustered along the side of the building, just off from the parking lot. A small group seems to have already gathered there.

Two guys stand in the grass kicking a hacky sack between themselves while a third boy sits on the picnic table with a cigarette hanging between his lips. As they near, Stiles begins to make out words as the raven-haired kid on the table waves his arms around and talks around the fag.

“--is fuckin’ pointless, okay? I love your brother, Gee, but Mikey needs to get his shit sorted out. He’s gonna attract attention sooner or later and I’m not going down just because the punk gets his jollies from playing with his food.”

One of the boys playing hacky sack puts his arms up. “What do you want me to do, Frankie? He’s pretty much harmless, he’s just having fun.”

The first guy snorts, but before he has a chance to reply, Pete clears his throat. Whatever conversation they were having ends abruptly and everyone turns to Stiles with unsettling synchronism. The kid sitting on the table stands up swiftly, putting his cigarette out. Then a slow grin twists his lips. “Frank,” He offers a hand. Stiles reaches out, mostly instinctual, and actually shivers when his hand wraps around Frank’s. “You must be Stiles. We’ve heard _ so much _ about you.”

For some reason, it feels like Frank is making fun of him.

“That’s Gerard,” Pete interrupts, pointing to the one who had been conversing with Frank before. “And Ray.” The last man waves once but seems too intrigued by the hacky sack to actually care about what’s being said.

“Where’s Mikey?” The question is out before Stiles has a chance to stop it.

Pete looks uncomfortable. “He had some stuff to finish up.” The answer is vague, but Pete doesn’t look inclined to elaborate. So Stiles lets it drop; Maybe Pete is still upset about the fight they allegedly had. Maybe Mikey is the upset one.

“Yo, new kid.” Stiles looks up, though he’s not sure why. Sure enough, Ray is looking directly at him. He holds up the bead-filled crocheted ball. “You wanna play?”

Stiles doesn’t really, but Pete has already abandoned his backpack on the ground and apparently made up his mind for the both of them. And it’s awkward at first because no one speaks to him and he seems to be the only one fumbling with the ball (really, are these people like hacky sack champions or something?) but eventually he gets the hang of it and it’s a lot of fun. But of course that’s when things go bad.

He can’t explain exactly where it comes from, but the memory hits him like a ton of bricks. One second, Stiles is in the middle of a hacky sack circle with Pete and the others, and then the next, he’s seven years old sitting across from his smiling parents with a crocheted ball in his hands.

_ “What is it?” He asked his mom. _

_ Claudia smiled. “It’s a hacky sack. If you’re going to try out for lacrosse in a couple of years, I think you need to work on your coordination a little.” _

And then just as quickly, the flashback is over and Stiles is in the schoolyard again, next to Pete. His mother’s gone. He sees the hacky sack flying at his face and barely has time to flinch away before it makes impact. The ball falls limply to the ground and Stiles stumbles back a step, tripping over his own feet. He ends up on his ass, sprawled out on the grass, probably soaked with mud and rainwater, but he doesn’t care. He can’t breathe.

He’s not sure why the memory hit him so hard. It’s vague, distant, almost foreign. He remembers the birthday when his parents gave him his very own hacky sack, how they told him it would help him with hand-eye coordination before he tried out for lacrosse, but he lost the ball in just a few short months and forgotten its existence almost completely.

And yet now, it hurts so fucking much.

His chest feels like it’s on fire, his throat constricted. He gasps, feeling tears stinging in his eyes. He tries to blink them away but only more form, threatening to fall over. Past the spots and sparks clouding his vision, Stiles can make out Mikey’s face. When did he get here? He’s crouched in front of Stiles, hands cold on Stiles’ jaw, holding him tightly. His mouth is moving, but Stiles’ ears feel like they’re filled with bees. A choked sob escapes him.

“Breathe,” Mikey is saying. “Can you hear me? Focus on me, Stiles. Listen to my breathing. Breathe with me.” Stiles watches as he takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, tries to follow the movements and do the same.

It’s not the first panic attack Stiles has gotten since his mother’s death, but it’s the first at school. The first in public. Usually Stiles can manage them alone, or it goes on so long he eventually passes out, but knowing that Pete and the others are a mere five feet away witnessing this just makes it so much worse. He doesn’t want anyone to see this part of him. 

When his breathing evens out and he no longer feels like he’s on the verge of blacking out, Stiles buries his head in his hands. He rubs his palms harshly against his eyes, inhales sharply. “I have to go,” He says, and stands up. But his legs seem to disagree and sway unsteadily beneath him. He closes his eyes against the sudden wave of vertigo, focuses on the hands that hold him upright. The strong stench of cigarette smoke and some fading cologne fills his lungs and he peeks up at the person holding him in place. Mikey meets his gaze steadily. “Thanks,” Stiles grumbles.

Pete appears behind Mikey’s shoulder, brown eyes alight with excitement. “Dude, are you okay? What the hell was that?”

Stiles frowns, subtly extricates himself from Mikey’s hold, and looks intently at the ground. “Panic attack,” He says, because he feels the need to offer Pete some form of explanation. “I get them sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal,” Frank speaks up doubtfully. “Your heart was pounding so fast I thought it was gonna explode.”

Stiles swallows hard. “I’m fine. I just need to go.”

With that, Stiles retrieves his backpack and scurries off in the direction of the lacrosse field. He’s not sure what pulls him in that direction, but he feels some of the tension melt out of his muscles when he reaches the field and finds Derek packing up gear on the sidelines. Though he’s at least thirty yards away, Derek stops immediately and lifts his head in Stiles’ direction. There’s no telling expression there, just the furrowed eyebrows Stiles has grown accustomed to seeing.

Derek doesn’t acknowledge Stiles as he hurriedly puts the rest of the equipment away and disappears in the direction of the locker rooms. For some reason, that saddens Stiles, like he’d almost expected Derek to ask him why he missed lunch practice or simply say hi or…  _ something _ .

When Stiles returns to the school, he can’t find his Physics textbook. It’s the second day of school and he’s already had a panic attack in front of his new friends, somehow pissed off the captain of the lacrosse team, and lost his science book.

Stiles slams the locker shut and contemplates beating his head against the metal because seriously, fuck his life.


	6. .Six.

Stiles shows up to lacrosse practice three minutes late just to piss off Derek. It works, considering the glare he shoots in Stiles’ direction when the latter drops his own stick on the grass and promptly falls into the warm up routine next to Scott.

Practice itself is fairly uneventful, but mind-numbingly active. Derek makes them take a few laps and then Jackson (to assert his dominance and authority as co-captain) makes them run drills. After that, they’re split into two groups and actually toss the ball around. Danny is placed in one net while Scott goes in the opposite, and then Derek and Jackson pick teams. Shirts versus skins, because this is high school and it’s a team full of testosterone filled men who are just aching to show off their bodies. And Stiles isn’t ashamed of his body, so he has no problem taking his shirt off and getting sweaty with a bunch of dudes. But then Stiles realizes he’s on Derek’s team. Derek, who is also taking his shirt off. And _hot damn_ , Stiles wants to lick those muscles. His skin is bronzed all over with no evidence of awkward uneven tan lines. The muscles in his arms ripple beneath the flesh when he moves, looking absolutely fucking delicious. Derek could probably hold Stiles up against a wall while simultaneously fucking his brains out. His stomach looks practically carved in stone and above that, dark nipples that harden at the touch of sudden air. Stiles wants to fucking bite them. He wants to follow the trail of hair lower, where it leads below the waistband of his shorts, wants to know if the rest of his body looks this perfectly sculpted and tastefully speckled with coarse black hair.

Stiles realizes he’s openly staring, mouth agape, when Derek’s eyes flash in his direction, almost like he can hear Stiles’ accelerated heartbeat from twenty feet away. Stiles jerks in awareness, fumbling ungracefully with his stick (there’s definitely an innuendo in there. He means his lacrosse stick, honestly.) He would have fallen on his ass, but Scott catches him just in time. Scott’s nose crinkles up like he smells something bad and Stiles frowns because rude, he knows he doesn’t smell like peaches after an hour of lacrosse, but Scott doesn’t smell the greatest right now either.

But instead of saying anything, Scott clears his throat. Then he glances over at Derek. He goes to move past Stiles, but Stiles reaches out and grabs his shoulder, leaning closer. “Hey, uhh, you’re friends with Derek. Right?”

Scott nods warily. “Yeah.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Pretty well.” Scott shrugs. “I mean, we’re not BFFs, but we’re kind of close. Why?”

“Is he gay?” Stiles has always figured bluntness is the best approach to anything. “Or bi? Pan? Basically, I want to know if he likes dick. Mine, specifically. Do you think Derek would like my dick?”

Scott’s watching him like Stiles just admitted to being Hitler; Wide-eyed, stunned, with an open expression of outright horror. “Umm…” He shakes his head, more to clear it than an actual answer. He looks physically pained when he says, “Sure, Stiles. Yeah, I’m sure you have nice genitalia and Derek would probably be fond of it.”

Stiles is just nodding along, finding his gaze wandering over to where Derek is looking down intently. The tips of his ears look red, which Stiles finds absolutely endearing. “I would do filthy things to that man. Filthy, sexy, incredible things.”

“Ew, ew. Okay, I cannot unhear that.” Scott covers his ears with both hands and walks away quickly. Stiles just chuckles, trying to contain the sudden burst of attraction he feels toward Derek. He’s hot, obviously. But he also appears to hate Stiles’ guts for some reason.

In the end, Stiles turns his attention to the scrimmage and soon forgets all about Derek’s chiseled chest and very capable and sculpted arms. It seems to pay off because after practice, Coach Finstock blows his whistle, rounding up the boys. He yells at some kid named Greenberg for a minute straight (without pausing for air, which is pretty fuckin’ impressive if you ask Stiles) and then, with a red face, starts swinging around his clipboard.

“As you pansies know, Derek and Jackson have given their very opinionated opinions on who should make first line this year. Some of you were seniors last year-- _Greenberg_ \-- and some are seniors this year-- again, _Greenberg_. And do I give a damn if this is your last year of high school? Don’t answer that, Jared. The answer is no. I do not care. I’m not putting you on the team if you suck. Oh for the love of-- _Greenberg, put your hand down. The answer is probably no._  Let’s just get on with this, alright?” And then with a suffering sigh, Finstock starts calling names. Stiles awaits patiently, a torn feeling pulling at his chest. Some part of him wants to make the team, but another part of him is asking, what happens if he does? His mom is gone. His dad works awful hours. Allison is in another state. Nobody will come watch his games. No one will cheer him on. And yet, the game is like an invisible tether to his mom. As long as he keeps playing, it’s as if he can feel her there.

“What is that?” Finstock furrows his brow at the clipboard. “What the hell does that say? Whittemore, did you write this?” He shoves the clipboard in Jackson’s face, earning a scoff but no real answer. “Dammit… Is that a B? B- _Bilinski?_ Sure, Bilinski! First line!”

Stiles looks up, gazing around dumbly. That’s him, right? But before he has a chance to ask, Coach is waving his clipboard around again, yelling about practice tomorrow, and then he’s heading off the field. A few guys amble away with grumbled responses, probably the ones who didn’t make first line. But Stiles hangs back.

Scott’s hand lands on Stiles’ shoulder, a bright grin on his face. “You made the team!” He yells. “This is so cool! Hey, we’re gonna go celebrate tonight. You’ve got to come.”

Stiles starts to shake his head because he’s really not into the party scene.

“It’s just junk food at the diner downtown,” Scott hurries to add, almost like he hears Stiles’ hesitation. “They give us free fries when we win games and it’s kind of become tradition to go there for celebration. Come on, dude. You have to come.” And oh shit, he’s actually pouting. His brown eyes soften and Stiles just can’t say no to the puppy dog face. So he sighs.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll come. I’m part of the team now, right?”

“Hell yeah, you are!” Scott claps him on the shoulder again, and the smile that stretches across his features feels almost contagious. Because this is what Stiles wanted, right? He’s made a friend, he’s joined the lacrosse team. His dad will be proud.

He just wishes his mom could be here to see it, too.

* * *

 

The Sheriff’s station in Belleville is similar to the one Stiles grew to call his second home back in Beacon Hills, but as soon as he pushes the front door open and steps inside, he realizes that it feels so different. In California, John had been part of the force since before Stiles was even born. Stiles grew up around the deputies, knew them all, from the veterans to the rookies. As he grew older, Stiles would often visit the station to bring his dad lunch, stop to catch up with the officers. After Claudia died, Stiles spent a lot of time running in circles, trying his best to cope with the sudden loss, like a never ending cycle of sadness. The deputies became an extended family, there to catch him when it felt like Stiles was free-falling in a whirlwind of confusion and despair.

But here in Belleville, Stiles feels lost all over again. There’s a uniformed man sitting at the front desk when he walks in. The man looks up and his mustache smiles. “Howdy there,” He says. “What can I do for you, son?”

Stiles shuffles on his feet and glances at the nameplate secured on the man’s chest. “Deputy Dewey Riley. I’m looking for my dad, John Stilinski.”

Dewey frowns for a second and then perks up and smiles again. “The rookie. Yeah.” John may be new, but he’s got Dewey’s age in experience under his belt. Stiles doesn’t mention this because offending the Deputy won’t get him anywhere. “Well,” Dewey says. “He’s out on a domestic disturbance call right now, but he should be back soon. You can wait around if you want, or I can let him know you stopped by.”

Stiles accepts the former of the offer, and Dewey directs him to a few seats along the wall. “How long have you been with the force?” Stiles wonders.

Dewey looks bashful, ducking his head a little. “Almost two years. Went into the academy right after high school.”

“I bet nothing exciting ever happens in a small town like this,” Stiles mentions nonchalantly. “Must be pretty routine.”

The Deputy perks up, shaking his head. “No way. I mean, yeah. Most of the year, it’s the usual domestic stuff, drug dealers every so often, but sometimes things get exciting.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says, like just remembering something. “Yeah, some people at school mentioned a kid who went missing last year. That must have been chaotic. Roger, or Ricky, or something.”

Dewey nods solemnly. “Ryan Ross. I remember him. It was horrible. His parents still check in every so often, but it’s unofficially a closed case. We think he probably ran away.”

So Randy had been right; Ryan was a real person, who really went missing last year. Stiles leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t think something else might have happened to him? You never found a body?”

Dewey shakes his head. “It’s a small town. It’s not uncommon for kids to want out. There was no evidence of foul play.”

“What about animals?” Stiles wonders. “You guys had that animal attack a few years back, right? The girl.”

“Laura Hale,” Dewey confirms. “Looked like a coyote attack, but I wasn’t on the force back then.” And then he narrows his eyes suspiciously at Stiles. “How did you know about that?”

Stiles shrugs, answering honestly. “It’s high school. People talk.” And then he presses again. “But they said you guys brought Derek in for questioning. So they must have suspected something, right?”

“Her brother, right,” Dewey frowns. “I don’t really know much. Like I said, I wasn’t on the case. But they did bring Derek Hale in, along with Peter; Laura’s uncle. A lot of the case is off-limits, confidential or something. Peter inherited a lot of money after the fire--”

“What fire?” Stiles asks.

“You’re new in town,” Dewey reminds himself, and then lowers his voice like he’s about to tell a scary story. “Well, six years ago, the Hale family house was burnt down. It was a big deal. Peter, Derek, and Laura were the only ones to survive. Everyone else died inside. Peter got custody of the kids and a butt-load of money from inheritance and insurance. He rebuilt the house just before Laura died. Anyways, I think he probably paid a lot of money to keep things quiet about her death. I don’t blame him, really; It’s gotta be hard losing one of the few family members you have left.”

Stiles looks down at his hands, feeling sympathetic all of a sudden because he knows better than anyone just how much it hurts. Because he can relate.

The front door swings open and Stiles is actually relieved to see his dad come through. Stiles stands, greeting his dad with a hug. “Hey kiddo, what are you doing here? Oh wait,” John motions to the woman who steps through the door behind him. “This is my partner, Jody Mills. Deputy Mills, this is my son, Stiles.”

Jody offers her hand and a motherly smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Stiles. It’s only been two days and I feel like I already know you.” She chuckles and nudges John’s shoulder playfully.

Stiles accepts the handshake with a soft laugh of his own. “Nice to meet you, too. I assume you’re the one assigned to make sure my dad doesn’t get himself into too much trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble,” John interjects, narrowing his eyes at Stiles. “What are you doing here? Please tell me they didn’t arrest you again.”

“That was one time!” Stiles argues. “And it was Allison’s fault, okay? She’s the one who dragged me out into the woods with a bottle of whiskey. But no, I did not get arrested. I wanted to let you know that I’m going out tonight.”

John looks impressed, if a bit wary. “A date?”

“God no,” Stiles shakes his head, but then remembers Derek. He would date Derek so hard. And technically Derek will be at the diner tonight. Can Stiles consider this an indirect date? “No, no date. I’m going out with the lacrosse team. Celebration, or whatever. First line was announced today.”

Slowly, John understands and a grin spreads across his face. “You made the team.” He pulls his son in for another hug, maybe just a bit too tight. But Stiles doesn’t argue. “I’m so proud of you. You’ll tell me when your first game is, I will be there.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles answers. “Sure, Dad.”

John pulls back and smiles again, but his eyes are sad. Stiles hears the unspoken words that fail to fall past John’s lips; _Your mom would be proud, too_.

* * *

 

By the time Stiles’ GPS directs him to a quaint little diner called _Rosie’s_ , most of the team is already seated around a few tables they’d pushed together. Scott spots him when the bell above the door jingles, waving him over. Another chair is pulled over and Stiles is ushered to sit. Somebody shoves a plate of curly fries in his direction and he grabs at some before they move away again. A couple of the guys acknowledge him, saying hi. Even Derek meets his eyes from a few chairs down, holding the gaze for a long second before nodding in silent greeting and then looking away.

There are a couple of indistinguishable conversations going on around him all at once. Derek is talking to some kid Stiles thinks is called Liam, and then Boyd joins in and the former both laugh at whatever it is he says. On the other side of the table, Danny is rolling his eyes at something Jackson said while one of the twins cackles and the other glares.

It feels strange, hearing clips and phrases from each conversation, but Stiles can’t grasp onto one. He feels like an outsider. And then Scott grabs his attention and pulls him into an argument with Isaac about some new superhero movie coming out. And this is Stiles’ element, so he falls into the discussion easily.

At one point, Liam asks Stiles about California and if he misses the sun yet, and then Boyd asks how he likes the school. Derek doesn’t say much, but Stiles catches his gaze a few times throughout the evening. Once, Derek’s mouth even twitches up into what Stiles could almost consider a smile before he breaks the eye contact.

Jackson leaves first, followed by Danny and the others. And then it’s just Scott, Derek, and Stiles left. “It’s actually getting late,” Stiles says, realizing the clock on the wall is showing almost eleven PM. “I should probably get home.”

Scott waves and says goodbye, but Derek stands. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

And there is no way in hell Stiles is going to pass on the opportunity for an attractive man to walk him to his vehicle, because he's seen enough chick flicks to know how this could potentially end. So he swallows and nods dumbly.

Outside, the air is freezing. Well, not literally; It’s actually fairly warm, but Stiles is used to the weather in California, not in Jersey, so he shivers and tries to find warmth in his flannel, with no such luck. But when Derek walks just a little too close, their shoulders bump together and Stiles’ skin ignites in heat. He glances up at Derek, but the other man is staring straight ahead, brow furrowed, scowling.

When they reach the Jeep, Stiles retrieves his keys and turns to look directly at Derek. “Thanks for walking me to my car. You know, if I were a damsel, you would be giving me a goodnight kiss right about now.”

Derek leans closer and for a second, Stiles’ heart nearly stops. _Is Derek seriously going to kiss him?_ Stiles prepares himself for the ultimate lip lock, but Derek stops short. His breath is warm on Stiles’ cheeks. In a low voice, he says, “You should go home, Stiles. And be careful.”

Stiles ignores the disappointment in his chest and nods instead. Yeah, that’s exactly what he should do because this close proximity to Derek is giving him this heady feeling, making it hard to think beyond the constant cheering in his head that is practically screaming for Derek to take his shirt off.

Before he embarrasses himself further, Stiles clambers into the car and pulls away, watching as Derek fades away in the rearview mirror.

* * *

John is watching a baseball game on the television when Stiles gets home. He stops Stiles before his son can make it up the stairs, calling, “A friend of yours came by while you were out. He found your physics textbook at school and brought it by. Left it in your room.”

Stiles stops. He only lost that book today. “What friend?” He asks.

John shrugs, only half paying attention. “Uhh, I didn’t catch a name. Lanky kid. Glasses. Make sure you thank him; Textbooks are expensive to replace.”

“Yeah, I will,” Stiles mumbles, and then tells his father goodnight and heads upstairs to his bedroom. On his desk, Stiles finds the science textbook he lost earlier that day.

_Mikey Way_.

Mikey found his book? Mikey brought his book home. How the hell does Mikey know where Stiles lives?

Stiles shoves the textbook into his backpack, ignoring the building questions, and decides to question Mikey’s tactics tomorrow. Tonight, he strips down and crawls into bed, flicking off the light.

Not a few hours later, Stiles jerks awake in a cold sweat to the eerie sensation of someone watching him. His breathing is hard, but it nearly stops altogether when he sees a shadow lurking in the corner of his room. A vague outline of a person is illuminated by the moonlight casting silver light through the window.

Stiles fumbles with the lamp on his nightstand, flicking it on. But when bright yellow light floods the room, Stiles searches frantically only to see nothing out of the ordinary. He’s completely alone.

Still, Stiles has a hard time falling back to sleep that night, goosebumps rising on his arms as an unseen breeze tickles his skin. A lingering chill like fingers pressing against his flesh.


	7. .Seven.

Stiles is just throwing his backpack into the front seat of the Jeep when his cell phone starts ringing. He digs it out of his pocket and then grins when he sees the name flashing across the screen. As soon as it’s against his ear, Allison is talking without prelude.

“Did you know that if you were to fall into a black hole, your body would be stretched out like a noodle?”

Stiles only hums, but Allison knows him well enough to translate the simple sound into an actual response.

“I know, cool right!?” She exclaims. “Something about the tidal force and the lack of radiation. But it gets even better; This process is called _spaghettification_.”

Stiles snorts. “I promise to steer clear of any black holes and not get spaghettified.”

Allison laughs, a musical sound that makes Stiles’ chest clench. He hasn’t realized until now just how much he misses his best friend. And now she’s clear across the country. “Hey, shouldn’t you be in school?” He admonishes playfully.

“Lunch,” Allison explains with a sigh. “I figured you were out by now. How is Belleville treating you so far? I miss you. Senior year isn’t the same without you.”

Stiles frowns, grabbing his lacrosse stick, and slams the car door. “It sucks and I miss you, too. But it’s not so bad here,” Stiles admits. “I think I made a few new friends. And I’m headed to practice right now.”

“Practice?” Allison repeats, sounding intrigued. “Lacrosse? You asshole! You joined the lacrosse team and didn’t tell me?!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I was going to tell you. They only announced first line yesterday.”

Allison makes a vague noise, digressing. “How’s the Sheriff? Does he like the department there?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Stiles reaches the locker rooms, tossing his gear down on the bench and opening his locker. Scott wanders in and starts changing, followed by Danny and Jackson. “I met his partner, Jody Mills. She seems nice enough. I also think he could use the break from being Sheriff. Being in charge was a lot of stress.”

“I think the change is good for both of you,” Allison says softly. “It sucks and I miss your stupid face, but maybe Belleville will be good for you.”

Just at that moment, Derek saunters into the locker room. He’s on time today. Early, even. He doesn’t look at anyone or say anything, heading straight to his locker. He’s facing away from Stiles, which gives Stiles the ability to watch unabashedly as the muscles in Derek’s back and shoulders move as he strips his shirt off. Then he ditches the jeans and Stiles is staring at a pair of dark gray boxer briefs that hug Derek’s ass perfectly. _Turn around,_ Stiles silently prays.

When Allison’s voice echoes on the other end of the phone, Stiles realizes he still hasn’t replied. “Yeah,” He mumbles. “I gotta go. Lacrosse and stuff. I’ll call you later, okay?”

He fumbles with the phone, hanging up and shoving it into his locker before changing his own clothes. By the time he looks back to the place where Derek had been standing, the other man is gone.

When practice ends, Stiles takes extra long in the shower, reveling in the heat and steam that lingers in the locker room. The other guys clear out one by one. Stiles delays, washes the sweat off slowly, and then just allows the water to cascade over him. If he holds his breath, he can almost imagine he’s drowning. It’s comforting, in a sick way, to feel the physical aspects of drowning, instead of just the emotional torrent that’s been pulling him under the metaphorical water since his mother died. He doesn’t want to admit it himself, but he knows he’s avoiding home.

John had the afternoon off and Stiles knew, even without seeing, exactly how his father would be spending the time; Strewn out on whatever alcohol they had stocked, wallowing in the misery and silence left behind by his deceased wife. And part of Stiles knew he should go home, try his best to comfort his dad in their time of mourning, maybe even grapple with the loss together. But Stiles was a coward; He didn’t want to face his dad right now. Neither John nor Stiles wanted to be alone, but even more; They didn’t want to be alone together.

But he also knows that he can’t hide in the locker room shower forever. So eventually, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads back toward his locker. He nearly has a heart attack when he rounds the corner and sees Derek standing in the corner of the room. He’s packing away the equipment from the day and when Stiles stops, Derek looks up. It could be Stiles’ imagination, but it looks like Derek’s eyes flicker to his uncovered chest, but just as quickly back up to his face. Derek clears his throat and deliberately turns away.

Stiles takes the chance to drop the towel and pull on a pair of boxers, then his jeans. When he’s tugging on a shirt, Derek turns back, points to the lacrosse stick lying across the bench. “There’s some tape and a sharpie in Coach’s office if you want to write your name on that,” He says. “Then you can leave it here instead of dragging it in from your car everyday.”

Stiles just nods. Derek turns fully to face him and, though they’re ten feet apart, the gaze feels intimate in that moment. But as the seconds pass, Stiles begins to fidget, like his body is screaming at him to just _move_. He wants to kiss the hell out of Derek, peel his shirt off and feel the other man’s warm, tender muscles under his fingertips. But instead, he turns on his heel and goes to search through Coach’s office for the aforementioned tape and marker.

* * *

 

Derek walks Stiles to his Jeep again once they leave the locker room. The parking lot is practically empty by now, vacant of even the staff’s vehicles, but there’s a black Camaro next to the Jeep. Of course, the sexy car belongs to Derek. Stiles isn’t even surprised.

Stiles stops in front of their cars, finding his keys. Derek stops and turns to face Stiles. Before he can think it through, Stiles hears himself say, “We should go on a date.”

Derek just watches him warily, a small frown on his lips. He repeats, “ _Date?_ ” slowly, like it’s a foreign concept to him. Frankly, it might be.

Stiles just rolls his eyes. “Yes, a date. Two people who share mutual feelings of affection go out together at a predecided time to a predecided location and enjoy each others company.”

Derek is silent, but his frown disappears. A smirk settles in it’s place. “What makes you think I return your feelings of affection?”

Feeling ballsy, Stiles takes a step closer, entering Derek’s personal bubble. Derek’s only an inch or so taller, but Stiles has to look up to meet his pale green eyes. “You walked me to my car from the locker room in plain daylight. I think you feel _something_ toward me.”

And Stiles is definitely sure that Derek is leaning closer now because they’re just just a few inches away. Derek licks his lips. Stiles can smell the mint on his breath, can practically taste it. “I don’t think you understand the mess you’re trying to get yourself into. I’m--” Derek pauses, swallows hard, and his gaze flickers to Stiles’ lips. But he sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s safe for you, Stiles.”

And Stiles knows that the statement alone should be setting off every red flag in his mind, but he doesn’t feel scared. He’s looking into Derek’s eyes right now and he doesn’t see a monster; He sees desperation and pain and Stiles empathizes with him. “You know what else isn’t safe? Driving in snow. Skydiving. Binge watching Netflix. People still do it anyway.”

“That’s not exactly what I mean.” Derek’s hand lifts, like he’s reaching out to touch Stiles’ jaw, but his fingers fall short, leaving a breath of space between them. “I don’t think you realize just how dangerous I actually am.”

Stiles shakes his head. “And I don’t think you realize just how little I actually care. You know who else is dangerous? Wade Wilson. You know who else I really wanna bone? _Wade fucking Wilson_.”

A small smile actually graces Derek’s lips. “What if I’m not a superhero? What if I’m the bad guy?”

“Well, if you’re talking Poison Ivy level villain, the point still stands; I would sex her up so fast.”

Derek bites down on his lip, but he looks amused when he says, “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” Stiles replies. Then he reaches out and lets his hand rest against Derek’s chest, barely grazing the thin Tshirt, but the contact sends a spark through him. He wants to touch more. He blinks up at Derek. “So about that date?”

Before Derek can respond, Stiles’ phone is alerting him to an incoming call. He groans and reluctantly backs away to pull it from his pocket, then presses it to his ear. “Hey Dad.”

John heaves a heavy sigh on the other end, muttering, “Thank God.”

“Dad?” Stiles asks. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Stiles can picture John putting his head in his hands, distressed. “I got called into the station. There was an accident, a kid your age, and I needed to make sure it wasn’t you. I want you to go home and stay inside tonight. Now. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Whoa, Dad, slow down,” Stiles waves the hand around that isn’t holding the phone. “I’m fine. Yes, I’ll head home now. But what accident? What happened?”

There’s a short silence as John hesitates, and then admits in a low voice, “Possible 187. Downtown.”

Stiles’ mouth actually falls open. “Homicide?” _Holy shit._ “Where? Can I--”

“No,” John interjects sternly. “I’m not telling you where. You cannot come. Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles frowns, glancing at Derek. The other man’s eyebrows are drawn and he stares determinedly at the ground, scowling at the asphalt like it’s personally offended him. “Yeah, fine,” Stiles begrudgingly concedes. “I’m leaving the school right now.”

“Good,” John sighs again. “Alright. I’ll only be gone for a few hours. Stay inside and for the love of god, Stiles, stay off the radio.”

“Whatever you say,” Stiles agrees. But as soon as he hangs up the phone, he’s clambering into the Jeep and fiddling with the box beneath the stereo.

Derek appears across from him, opening the passenger side door. “What is that?” He wonders.

“Police scanner,” Stiles mutters, switching the dials in search of the station they’re tuned into today. Finally, the static clears and he hears a few voices. He sits back and listens.

“Hanscum, you got your ears on?” Stiles recognizes that voice and after a second places it as the Deputy he’d spoken to at the station. Dewey Riley.

A female voice replies, sounding way too chipper and a little Canadian. “Oh you betcha, Deputy Dewey.”

“Jogger called in a probable 187. Sheriff Henrikson wants all hands on deck. 40°46'48.1"North--” Stiles grabs his phone, typing the numbers into the search bar.

Derek starts to say something but Stiles quickly shushes him. He sighs, climbing into the car to sit next to Stiles, though he doesn’t interrupt again.

“--74°08'57.9"West. Vic is caucasian, male, late teens. Appears to be slit once from groin to sternum. Internal organs look to be missing from the crime scene, but we won’t know more until autopsy. It’s a messy one.”

Stiles listens a minute longer, but when nothing new is said, he flicks the radio off. Then he pulls up Google Maps.

“What is that?” Derek asks, peeking over his shoulder.

“Coordinates,” Stiles mumbles. The page loads and he’s staring at a map of Belleville. A small red dot appears by a blue streaming line. “Dumped by the river.” He looks up suddenly, frowning. “They said organs were missing from the crime scene. Who kills someone and then takes their organs?” Then his eyes widen and he gasps. “Holy shit, what if it was the black market?”

Derek looks tense, but he rolls his eyes. “The black market in Belleville, New Jersey? It was probably just an animal attack.”

Stiles scoffs. “An animal that slit the guy from groin to sternum? Dude, that’s like a surgical move. That is how you gut someone. I wanna go see.”

Derek is frowning, shaking his head. “Didn’t your dad tell you to go straight home?”

Stiles pauses because was Derek eavesdropping? He makes a mental note to lower the volume on his phone in the future. Eventually he just throws his arms up dramatically. Derek has a point; John would personally strangle Stiles if he saw his son lurking around a crime scene. But at the same time, Stiles is just so damn curious. So he tells Derek to close the door and starts pulling out of the parking lot, saying, “You’ll cover for me if we get busted, right?”

Derek doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue either. Stiles considers it a victory.

* * *

 

A line of trees runs along the length of the river, offering coverage and a sense of solitude from the road beside. Stiles parks the jeep a block away and leads Derek toward where the police have the area marked off with yellow caution tape. A few uniformed men are standing guard, stopping anyone from passing. Stiles curses under his breath and heads for the trees.

It’s darker beneath the canopy of leaves, quieter than the street outside, and Stiles focuses on taking careful steps. He wants to swing wide around the crime scene, avoiding the cops while maneuvering toward the river.

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his presence is kind of reassuring to Stiles. Honestly, Stiles is kind of surprised Derek even agreed to come out here with him. It leads him back to the question of affection; Does Derek return those feelings? He must, right? You don’t follow someone into the woods to look for a dead body unless you care about their well-being. Or, of course, you’re just morbidly curious, which Stiles is, but Derek doesn’t seem the type to search out dead bodies on the regular.

Within a few minutes, Stiles hears voices. Near the edge of the trees, the ground slopes downward toward the riverbank. Stiles slows, slinking closer to the opening. Thirty feet away, Stiles sees a group of uniforms scurrying around a bloody shape on the ground. There’s a smudge of dark hair and pale flesh, but Stiles can’t make out the details of the boy on the ground. “I’m gonna get closer,” Stiles hisses. And he goes to take a step, but manages to twist his foot in a tree root jutting up from the ground. He barely has time to panic before he’s flailing forward, right in view of the officers (including his dad) down the shore.

But before he can fall, strong hands are around his chest, grabbing at the shirt, and pulling him back into the cover of the woods. His back presses against a tree, the bark scratching uncomfortably through the fabric. But Stiles can hardly feel it because Derek’s chest is pressed flush against his. Hot and strong and solid. Derek peeks around the tree, down to where the cops gather at the scene. He lets out a breath after a second, which Stiles assumes to mean they haven’t been spotted.

Stiles swallows hard when Derek straightens up, but doesn’t move away. His hands are still fisted in the front of Stiles’ shirt, holding tightly. They’re so fucking close Stiles can feel the dip in Derek’s abs, the curve of his chest, the heat of his breath. “I really want to kiss you right now,” Stiles admits. “And not only because you just saved my ass.”

Derek doesn’t answer right away, but his lips hover close to Stiles’. “I think maybe,” He says softly. “We should get the hell out of the woods first. And then I might consider that date offer.”

Stiles grins when Derek backs away, holding him steady until Stiles can find even footing. Even then, Derek’s hand settles on the small of Stiles’ back and, well, Stiles can’t really find any reason to complain about that.


	8. .Eight.

_.Eight. _

By the following morning, the entire school knows about the dead kid. The hallways are quiet. So silent that every soft footfall, every hushed whisper, echoes off the walls. By fifth period, Stiles has already heard the name that seems to bounce between every student, a hardly audible, “ _ Have you heard about Harry Spangler? _ ”

But nothing could prepare Stiles for the heavy tension hanging like a noose when he walks into film class and takes his usual seat behind Randy. The desks to his left are vacant and it occurs to Stiles with a jolt of realization; The kids he met on the first day, the ones who told him about Ryan’s disappearance, the ones with the theory about ghosts. The black haired boy.  _ Harry _ .

Randy catches his gaze, frowning and leaning back to whisper, “So you heard about Harry?”

Stiles feels sick, but nods. He doesn’t mention the fact that he  _ saw  _ Harry, post-mortem. He startles when a lanky figure slides into Harry’s seat, almost expecting to see the dead kid himself. But he recognizes Stu instead, Billy taking the desk behind. Stu’s eyes are alight with excitement, knocking Randy’s arm. “Dude, did you hear about the Spangler kid?”

Randy actually smiles back for a second before he sighs. “Yeah. I heard they found him down by Second River. Nobody’s giving any details yet, but they said it looks like an animal attack.”

Before he can stop himself, Stiles snorts. The others all turn their eyes to him, silent. Waiting for him to say something. After a second, Stiles fidgets and looks down, scooting closer. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Billy wonders, watching Stiles intently. “What? You know something about what happened?”

Stiles makes a vague noise. “Sort of. My dad’s a cop, I may or may not have been listening to the police scanner.”

“No shit?” Randy laughs. “So what do they think happened to him?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Stiles admits with shrug. “But the way it happened... I don’t think it was an animal that did it.”

“The way it happened,” Randy repeats, intrigued. “What the hell does that mean? How did it happen?”

Stiles fidgets some more. There’s a shred of paper on the corner of his desk, a leftover crumb of some previous kid’s homework. Stiles picks at it, tearing it into even tinier shreds. “Gutted,” He says, his voice low and head down. “I heard the organs were missing.”

Randy waves a dismissive hand at him. “Animal,” He reiterates. “Just like I said. Some coyote probably nabbed him on his way home from school, turned his insides into a chew toy.”

At the front of the classroom, a throat is cleared. Mr. Dewees stands there looking uncomfortable, his hands folded in front of him. “I know everyone has heard about Harry Spangler by now,” Dewees says and it’s the saddest tone Stiles has heard from his usually bubbling teacher. “It’s a tragedy and it’s scary, especially happening to someone we all know. Mr. Novak would like everyone to know that his office is open to anyone who may feel affected by this incident. If you need to talk to someone, he’s here.”

Stu’s hand goes up and he bites his lip roughly. “Mr. Dewees, I would like to take advantage of Mr. Novak’s gracious offer, as I feel--” He clutches his chest. “--deeply affected by this.”

Dewees frowns, nods, and gestures to the door. Stu grabs his backpack, disappearing from the room in a dramatic sweep. “Anyone else? Remember, the guidance counselor is here for a reason.”

No one speaks up and class resumes as almost normal. As normal, Stiles supposes, as class can be when one of its students has just been brutally murdered.

At the end of the day, Stiles is surprised to find himself standing in front of the guidance office. The door is closed. He wants to knock, but he also wants to run in the opposite direction. He simply stands there dumbly, following the engraved letters on the plaque that spell out,  _ Mr. Novak _ .

While he’s deciding whether to flee or knock, the door swings open. A man about Stiles’ height stands there. He smiles warmly, his ice blue eyes seeming to melt into puddles that match his cerulean tie. “Hello.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Stiles blurts.

Mr. Novak nods seriously. “You’re having an existential crisis. Would you like to come in?”

Stiles is taken back, shaking his head. “What? No, I mean… I don’t know why I came here. To your office. I’m sorry.” He turns sharply, finally having come to a decision; Flee.

But Mr. Novak steps forward, a gentle but firm hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I think you came here for a reason,” He states, like it’s that simple. “Perhaps a subconscious one.” He pauses, then motions toward the office, asking again, “Would you like to come in?”

Stiles isn’t sure why, but he goes in.

The guidance office is about as big as a storage closet, brightly lit to illuminate the degrees framed on the wall, all entitled to one Mister Castiel Novak. Though the P.hD in the corner suggests it should be Doctor Novak.

Mr. Novak sits down behind his desk, waits for Stiles to join him, but doesn’t say a thing until he’s seated. “Did you know Harry Spangler well?” Of course, the guidance counselor has probably dealt with weeping students all day who have claimed to be emotionally distressed by the teenager’s death.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not really. He was in my film class. I only spoke to him a few times.”

Mr. Novak nods like this makes sense. “And yet something brought you here. What do you think that could be?”

Stiles laughs nervously. “You’re the shrink. Shouldn’t you be able to tell me that?”

A small smile graces Mr. Novak’s features, but it’s sad. “Do you know what I think? I think that, just maybe, Harry’s death is affecting you more than you realize. Death can hurt people in different ways, even strangers or acquaintances can be hugely impacted. Usually that’s because there’s a more personal motive behind the pain. An attached memory or feeling--”

Stiles jumps out of the chair like it’s on fire. Suddenly, it does make sense why he came here. And he doesn’t want to be here any longer. “I have lacrosse practice,” Stiles stutters, his body already jerking toward the exit. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Mr. Novak calls after him, but Stiles doesn’t stop. He can feel the familiar dread and panic swelling inside his chest. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before.

As his mother’s mind deteriorated, Stiles had spent a lot of time with different doctors. Some of them were his own. It was normal, they said, to be depressed when a parent is dying. To feel pain, helplessness, anger. But it also helped to talk about it. He visited Doctor Morrell countless times before Claudia died, sometimes crying or spewing venomous animosity. In the end, it didn’t help at all. His mother still died and he still wept, was still angry. And so the night that she died was the last time Stiles saw his therapist.

Hearing the halls echo with voices recalling Harry Spangler’s murder was like listening to all of those doctors all over again. It ached in Stiles’ chest to remember the degression of his mom, watching her fall apart piece by piece until there was nothing left. Harry’s death just brought all of those feelings back.

When he stumbles into the afternoon overcast outside the school, Stiles tries to calm himself. He doesn’t need another panic attack right now. He will not do it. He breathes deeply, holding it and counting before releasing the air. Doubled over with his hands on his shaking knees, he closes his eyes. The star shaped bursts of color fade from his vision and the ringing in his ears dims, like someone turning down the static on a TV. Then he sits down on the sidewalk, legs crossed, and retrieves his phone.

Of course Allison doesn’t answer. She’s still in class. He curses and tries to fight back tears that force themselves forward.

Stiles looks around the parking lot. Most of the cars have cleared out but a few students stand around in small clusters. Near the far side of the lot, Stiles can see Mikey and Pete near a red Mustang. Their heads are bowed close together, intimate, but Mikey looks displeased as he glares at the ground.

Pushing himself to his feet, Stiles takes a moment to steady himself. Then he starts across the parking lot to his Jeep. He barely makes it halfway when tires squeal in the distance, sounding like nails on chalkboard as someone accelerates way too quickly. There’s a shout, blurring motion and blinding pain, and then more shouting. It barely registers that he’s on the ground, the knees of his jeans scraped through, and sound all around him. Stiles can hardly think. There’s a sharp pain shooting like arrows up his arm. He gasps, whines, and clutches the limb to his chest.

“Are you okay?!” A voice above him demands, frantic.

“Does he fucking look okay?” Someone else asks dryly. Cold hands press against his arm then, when he groans in protest, his shoulders. “Stiles, let me see.”

“Stiles?” A third voice chimes in, this one sounding angry. Almost a growl. He can place it right away.

“Derek,” Stiles manages the name, ground out between his teeth. He looks up, feeling nauseas, to a sea of faces surrounding him. He might throw up.

“Back up.” Scott is there suddenly, pushing a couple of the onlookers away. “Give him some room.”

“What the fuck happened?” Derek demands, kneeling next to Stiles. He reaches out tenderly for Stiles’ arm. Stiles lets him.

“It was the sun!” Stiles looks up to see Billy Loomis is looming over him, wild-eyed and flustered. “The sun was in my eyes, I couldn’t see!”

“You almost hit him with a car,” A voice says irritably from behind Stiles. He turns his head to see Mikey splayed out on the ground next to him. The cold hands. They were Mikey’s.

“What--” Stiles has to pause to swallow down the bile rising in his throat, but the pain has partially subsided by now. He blinks slowly. “What happened? How did you get over here?”

Mikey smirks condescendingly, like he’s talking to a toddler. “I was standing right next to you, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t even shake his head because the pain is coming back again. Maybe he hit his head, too. Strong hands help him stand, holding him in place once he’s off the ground. “It’s your wrist,” Derek concludes. “I think it’s broken. You need to go to the hospital.”

A cold hand slithers onto his shoulder, chilling Stiles even through the layer of flannel. “I can take you,” Mikey offers. “I don’t think you should be driving right now.”

Stiles agrees with that, but there’s a sick feeling churning in his stomach. Luckily, Scott interjects. “I’ll take him,” He says with a definitive tone to his voice, leaving no room to argue, though it looks like Mikey wants to. “I can call my mom and let her know I’m on my way. She can look at you.”

With an approving nod, Derek says, “Good. Make sure he’s okay.”

It’s a quiet drive to the hospital, but the serenity ends as soon as Stiles and Scott wander inside. A curly-haired woman who bears a striking resemblance to Scott stands there with her hands on her hips. She frowns with narrowed eyes and it would be intimidating if she weren’t wearing Winnie The Pooh scrubs. Still, as she stomps over to Scott, Stiles shrinks back from the glare. “What the hell did you do?” In the same breath, she looks over at Stiles with motherly concern. “Hi, I’m Melissa McCall. You must be Stiles. Can I see the arm?”

Stiles obligingly holds out the arm, afraid to protest in case she starts glaring at him, too. She pokes a bit, asking him to turn it and bend the elbow. Eventually she hums. “Definitely the wrist,” She concedes. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get you in for an x-ray and then get you bandaged up.” She throws him a pitying smile before grabbing onto Scott’s ear and dragging him along. “So help me, Scott, if this was your fault--”

“Ow ow ow, no! Mom!” Scott follows Melissa, not that he really has a choice. “It wasn’t my fault! Just ask Stiles!”

Frowning, Melissa turns to Stiles and waits for an answer.

“It was absolutely, one-hundred percent, Scott’s fault,” Stiles states.

Melissa punches Scott’s bicep, which probably hurts her more than it does him. Still, Scott plays it up, flinching and rubbing the spot. “Ow! He’s kidding, Mom! It was a car.”

Stiles nods seriously. “Scott’s right. It was a car. We were playing chicken, trying to kill some time before lacrosse practice--”

Melissa wacks Scott again. Stiles chuckles, but his laughter is cut off when Melissa points a finger at him. “I’d smack some sense into you, too, if you’re wrist wasn’t already broken.”

Scott snorts.

With a sigh, Melissa crosses her arms. “We’ll need to call your parents.”

Great. “Could we possibly not?” Stiles asks hopefully.

Melissa grimaces. “Sorry, kiddo. Protocol since you’re a minor.”

 

And that’s how Stiles ends up with his cellphone pressed against one ear while the doctor fits a cast onto his wrist. “Dad, I’m fine,” Stiles repeats for the millionth time. “They’re putting a cast on now and then I’m free to go.”

“I’m off duty in two hours,” John says, ignoring his son’s reassurances. “I can come get you from the hospital and we can file a report--”

“No, Dad,” Stiles groans. “No reports. It was an accident. Nobody was seriously injured. Insurance covers the x-rays. Really, just let it go. Don’t you have more important things to worry about, like finding out what happened to Harry?”

There’s a pause on the other end and then John asks, “How do you know the victim’s name?”

Stiles would smack himself if he had a free hand to do it with. He settles with rolling his head back and suppressing a sigh. “He went to my school,” Stiles admits. “I had a class with him.”

John is silent for a long time before he huffs incoherently and says, “As soon as that cast is on, I want you to get your ass home. Call me as soon as you get there. I want to know you made it safely.”

“Yeah,” Is all Stiles says. “Okay. I will.”

Melissa appears in the doorway just as the doctor is finishing up the cast. She smiles comfortingly, stepping into the room, and Stiles’ heart stutters when Derek steps in behind her. He looks out of place, fidgeting along the wall, while Melissa gives Stiles care instructions and a prescription for pain meds.

Something came up and Scott had to leave, Derek explains once Melissa is gone. “I told him I could give you a ride back to the school.”

Stiles pretends not to be impressed by the sexy car, but riding shotgun is even better than he imagined. He runs his hands over the leather seats and brushes his fingertips across the dashboard.

“This car is fucking beautiful,” Stiles coos. “Geez, how much did it cost? Don’t answer that, the answer is probably a lot. Roscoe was my mom’s.” Stiles doesn’t even realize the words are out of his mouth until they hang above the center console, between the boys like a tennis ball. There for anyone to hit. Stiles gulps and takes the first swing. “My Jeep. It was my mom’s. I know it’s a piece of shit, but it was kind of her baby, you know?” Stiles chuckles. “I remember she used to tell me this story about when she first bought it, right after she married my dad, and he absolutely hated it. Kept telling her it was a death trap, but she was stubborn.”

There’s a small silence where the gets hot, the air thick. Stiles feels like he can’t breathe. But it only lasts for a second before Derek smiles softly. “You must get it from her. The stubbornness.”

Stiles barks out a laugh of surprise. Nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Now the ball is in Derek’s court. Stiles waits to see if he does anything with it.

“This was my sister’s,” Derek says, and his voice sounds thick, too. Stiles isn’t the only one having a hard time finding enough air. “It was supposed to be impounded after she died-- evidence or something. But my uncle made sure I could keep it. It was Laura’s pride and joy, and now it’s the only thing I have left of her.”

Without really thinking it through, Stiles reaches across the center console to lay his unbroken hand on Derek’s wrist. Derek hesitates, but turns his hand so their palms rest together. And the contact, such a small, simple gesture, is like punching a hole in the window. The car fills with air and Stiles can actually breathe.

No one talks and Stiles doesn’t take his hand back. Derek doesn’t ask him to. But as the school draws closer, Stiles begins to think about what happened in the parking lot. It’s a bit unclear, all of it happening so fast, but he recalls the flash of a blue car nearing him, the sting as he landed mostly safely on the ground, and the sharp, distinct coldness of Mikey’s hands. What he doesn’t remember is the thing Mikey had said happened.

“He wasn’t standing next to me,” Stiles says aloud. Derek casts a questioning glance his direction, arching an eyebrow. “Mikey pushed me out of the way,” Stiles explains, finally releasing his hand to wave it around, emphasizing his words. “Right before the car hit me. And he said he was standing right next to me. He wasn’t. I saw him across the parking lot with Pete, and then suddenly he was there. That’s not possible, right?”

Derek doesn’t say anything but his eyebrows look unhappy.

Stiles deflates into the seat a little. “You think I’m crazy,” He murmurs. “I probably hit my head when I fell.”

Derek turns to look him at him, which is really not a safe thing to do since he’s driving. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” He says.

“Then what the hell was that?” Stiles asks. “How do you logically explain Mikey moving across the parking lot in less than two seconds?”

Derek’s jaw moves a bit as he chews on his lip, deliberately silent. Then, as he stares straight ahead into the night, he asks, “What if there’s not a logical answer? What if there’s another explanation?”

“What? Like he magically teleported thirty yards?” Stiles frowns. In theory, teleportation would be super cool. Scientifically, he knows it’s just not possible.

“I think maybe you should widen your horizons a little,” Derek says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Do me a favor; Look up Sheridan Le Fanu. Read a book.” When he looks over at Stiles again, he’s smirking, but his eyes are hard in the dim light. “And then maybe I’ll be able to help you find an explanation.”

Derek doesn’t say more than that, but the conversation ends as they pull into the school parking lot. Stiles’ jeep looks lonely in the dark, save for the red car parked a few spots down. Leaning against the hood is Mikey.

As Stiles clambers gracefully out of the car, he’s silently grateful that Derek is with him. The latter climbs out of the driver’s seat, moving to stand a few feet behind Stiles. He quietly glares at Mikey.

“Mikey,” Stiles greets him warily. “What are you still doing out here?”

Mikey smiles. The image of a cat watching a mouse before pouncing pops into Stiles’ head. He suppresses a shiver. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am,” Stiles nods, then remembers his manners. “Thanks to you. But you know, most people would just use a phone. Call to check in.”

Mikey shrugs, laughing. “Call me old-fashioned.”

An uncomfortable silence falls over the three of them and Stiles finds himself squirming to get away. “Thanks again for saving my ass,” He tells Mikey, and then turns to Derek, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “And thank you.” He doesn’t say for what, but he thinks Derek understands.

Derek lifts a hand and Stiles’ heart flutters because he thinks holy shit, Derek is about to kiss him. But his fingertips just brush against the side of Stiles’ neck, warm and gentle and possibly just as tantalizing as any kiss. “Be careful,” Derek says.

And when Stiles jumps into his jeep and drives away, he glances back in the rearview mirror to see that Mikey has already disappeared.

That night, Stiles has a hard time sleeping. He can’t seem to stay warm, no matter how many blankets he piles onto himself. Eventually, at around three AM, he gives up and starts his laptop. He remembers what Derek told him about widening his horizons, so he types Sheridan Le Fanu into the search bar, pulling up the first book he finds;  _ Carmilla _ . And he starts reading.

**A/N: I know that it's taken me forever to update, but I have an excuse. My computer, for whatever reason, won't connect to my wifi. Updates can't happen without wifi. Hopefully I can get the wifi issue figured out soon and I'll be able to update more regularly, but until then, please be patient with me. I know you want more chapters, but repeating 'please update' in the comment section is not going to fix my internet any faster.**

**fucking love you. xoRachel**

 


	9. .Nine.

“Stealing is illegal, you know.”

Stiles doesn’t even glance up when Derek sits down on the bench next to him. Lacrosse practice hasn’t actually started yet, not that Stiles is participating anyway. How ironic, Stiles muses. He made first line only to break his wrist before even the first game. It looks like Stiles will be spending quite a bit of time on this bench.

When Stiles doesn’t respond, Derek scoots a little closer. “There’s an official Essex County Sheriff’s Department logo on the front of that laptop,” Derek informs Stiles. Like Stiles isn’t already aware. “Did you steal that from your dad?”

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise, though he doesn’t tear his gaze away from the computer balancing precariously on his knees. “Temporarily misappropriated. I’ll give it back.”

“Won’t he notice it’s been misappropriated?”

And before Stiles can stop himself, he admits, “No. He drank too much and was passed out in the living room when I left this morning. He probably won’t even wake up until his shift, so I’ve still got a few hours.” His movements freeze when he realizes what he said. He swallows hard and tries to backtrack, tries to think of a way to make it sound like his dad isn’t a functioning alcoholic. But… he can’t. Because that’s what he is.

Fortunately, Derek doesn’t mention it. He just gestures to the computer, shifting back to the topic at hand. “So what is this? What could possibly be worth stealing government property to find out?”

Stiles turns the laptop to face Derek, noting the way he visibly flinches when he sees the gruesome picture of Harry Spangler. Growing up with a cop for a dad, Stiles got used to John’s work showing up at the house. Claudia always used to chastise him for leaving case files on the kitchen table. Seeing photos of a dead body doesn’t bother him as much as it should, he supposes.

On the computer, Harry Spangler is lying on a medical exam table. His chest cavity is gaping, with the filleted flesh spread apart to show the inside. There are a few close-ups taken at varying angles; A thin bruise on his neck, a gash along his forearm. “This is the ME’s report,” Stiles explains, and then scrolls down the page to read the actual words instead of making his own assumptions based on the pictures. “It says that the cut on his chest was jagged, rough around the edges, but overall a straight shot. One slice. Almost surgical. It was done post-mortem. It looks like he was hit in the back of the head, probably stunning him, but he was coherent enough to put up a fight. But that’s not what killed him. The cause of death was strangulation. Derek, name one animal that would strangle its victims.”

Derek is frowning, watching Stiles with an expression that he can’t quite read. “It wasn’t an animal.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says, his voice raising with excitement. “And the police know that. I was listening to the police scanner and they were out there for hours, scouring at least a mile radius looking for the organs.”

“Let me guess,” Derek says dryly. “They didn’t find any.”

“Nada,” Stiles affirms. “The missing organs have just disappeared.”

“That’s usually what missing means,” Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, I am aware of that. But look at this. There’s no evidence of another person being there; No footprints, no sign of the struggle that Harry supposedly put up, no murder weapon. It’s almost like he just dropped dead.”

“So it was a drop site,” Derek realizes. “Harry wasn’t killed there.”

“You know what they found nearby, though?  _ Canis lupus fecal excrements. _ ” Stiles grins, like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “Wolf shit, Derek! A lot of it, too. Enough to suggest that a whole pack lives nearby.”

“So maybe the wolves took off with the organs.”

Stiles is shaking his head impatiently. “No. Dude, wolves eat like 90% of a kill, they’re not wasteful, especially this close to winter. Even if a wolf did scavenge parts of Harry, there would be more missing. As it is, the only organs missing are liver, spleen, and heart.” He sighs heavily, looking distressed when he says, “Someone did this. Someone killed him, and then planted him in that spot. So why there? Why put him on the shore instead of tossing him into the river? Why cut him open and take his organs.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow as he contemplates this, then he frowns. “They wanted him to be found. They’re trying to make it look like an animal attack, blaming the wolves.

“Hell,” Stiles snorts. “Maybe they’re trying to blame  _ werewolves _ . They stole the heart after all. Maybe somebody’s seen too many scary movies.”

There’s a beat of silence and Stiles feels Derek tense beside him. Stiles scrolls through the report again, trying to catch anything he may have missed the first time. “The question still stands, though; Why? Whoever did this did a piss poor job of making it look like an animal attack. Unless…”

“Unless things didn’t go as planned,” Derek finishes the thought for him. “Harry fought back. You said there were signs of struggle. Maybe they underestimated him. The hit to the head was probably supposed to kill him, but when it didn’t they got desperate. They strangled him instead.”

“But they had to have known the police would realize that, so why bother stealing the organs and making it look like an animal attack?”

“What if it’s a message?” Derek suggests. “Or an MO?”

Stiles’ eyes widen at the implication. “MO’s are usually established methods of killing. Repeated. You think there will be more?”

Before Derek can respond, Coach Finstock starts flailing his arms from the field. The others seem to have started arriving for practice. Stiles hadn’t even noticed. “Hale! I don’t see you with a broken wrist! Get the hell off the bench and get your ass over here!”

Derek stands up, looking reluctant to leave. But he says, “I should go.”

Nodding in a jerky motion, Stiles waves a hand toward the computer. “Yeah, sure. I think I’m gonna head home, make sure I get the laptop back before my dad wakes up.” Derek opens his mouth to say something else, but closes it and starts to walk away. “Oh, wait!” Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek’s wrist, but when Derek tenses he promptly drops it and pulls his hand back. “I um… I forgot, I read the book you suggested.  _ Carmilla _ ?”

Derek nods slowly. “What did you think?”

Stiles laughs. “I think you should explain why you wanted me to read a book about a lesbian vampire. I mean, it was a cool book. But--”

“Go out with me.”

And… whatever Stiles was expecting Derek to say, that certainly wasn’t it. It causes Stiles to falter slightly, nearly dropping the laptop before he gapes at the man standing in front of him. He shakes his head. “Uh… Sorry, run that by me again?”

One corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up. “Go out with me. On a date. You know, it’s when two people who share mutual feelings of affection--”

“That’s my line,” Stiles interjects. But he smiles, too. “I thought dating me was a bad idea.”

Derek chuckles, a sound that makes Stiles’ heart thump just a little bit faster. “It is. I’ll probably regret it. So… tomorrow night? Rosie’s diner?”

Stiles can only nod dumbly. Derek reaches out to trail his fingers along Stiles’ jaw, a gesture that Stiles notices is becoming a common occurrence between them. They’re own personal form of goodbye. It makes something tingle in Stiles’ stomach. “I’ll see you later. And Stiles?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Be careful.”

Once Derek disappears into the locker room, Stiles scrolls through the report one more time, trying to make sense of it. And then something Derek said hits Stiles and he inhales sharply.

“Holy shit,” He mumbles. He types as quickly as he can on the laptop, cursing the stupid cast. Eventually the page loads and Stiles is looking at a disturbing picture of a girl. Her eyes are wide open, watching nothing and yet seeing all. A dead stare. Her hair is black, her mouth open. There are leaves and twigs and dirt spread out around her. Stiles’ stomach twists. He tries not to look at the name, but the letters jump out at him.  _ Laura Hale _ . She looks so much like Derek.

Stiles shakes his head, looking at the report objectively. There’s not much information, most of it classified, but there’s enough. He starts to connect the dots.

Missing organs.

Incisions made post-mortem.

Evidence of a struggle.

Blunt force to the back of the head.

Ruled as an animal attack, case closed.

“It’s the same MO,” Stiles realizes. “Holy shit, it’s a copycat killer.”


	10. .Ten.

Stiles paces the length of his bedroom floor, stepping over piles of plaid shirts and discarded jeans. He trips on a lone shoe, stumbling, but manages to catch himself on the edge of the desk.

“I’m freaking out!”

He tangles both hands in his hair, emphasizing the point.

Allison laughs softly, the image of her on the computer screen freezing for just a second before clearing. She smiles. “Relax, Stiles.”

“I can’t relax!” Stiles falls into his desk chair, letting his back arch over the seat. Groaning, he repeats, “I am freaking out.”

“It’s just a date.” Allison waves a hand at him, like the matter is insignificant. “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

“Derek,” Stiles informs her. But saying the name out loud makes it all too real and he’s standing to pace the floor again. “Holy shit, I have a date with Derek in less than thirty minutes!”

“It’s a hot name,” Allison says casually. “Is he hot?”

“Burning hot,” Stiles grumbles. He buries his face in his hands.

“Wear the red plaid. You look good in red.”

Stiles looks around at the clothes littering the floor until he spots the shirt she’s talking about. Pulling it on, he angles himself in front of the computer. He waits for Allison’s approval.

“Very nice,” Allison nods. “You look fuckable.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“And keep the glasses,” Allison says. Stiles reaches up, having forgotten he’d even taken his contacts out.

“No,” Stiles pulls the glasses off. “The glasses are nerdy and I am going on a date with sex on legs. I’m not wearing glasses.”

“The glasses are sophisticated,” Allison disagrees in that voice that leaves no room for argument. “They bring out your eyes.”

“They literally cover my eyes.” But he places them back on anyway.

Allison grins at him. “You look great. But if you don’t leave now, you’re going to be late. You’ll call me tomorrow and let me know how it went, right?”

“You’ll get all the juicy details,” Stiles smiles back. “Even if it gets rated R.”

“Stiles Stilinski, you’d never put out on the first date!”

Stiles shoots her an exaggerated wink. “Maybe if he’s a gentleman, he’ll get to second base.”

 

Stiles had hoped to escape the house without running into his dad, but luck was never one of his allies. John is sitting at the dining room table when Stiles tries to sneak out. There’s an open bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and an empty glass in his hand.

“Curfew,” John says. He waves the glass at Stiles.

“Isn’t until eleven,” Stiles nods. “It’s only eight, Dad. I’ll be home by curfew.”

“Where are you going?” John’s eyes are sort of unfocused, but his words aren’t slurred. He’s well on his way to getting drunk. Stiles could be gone until dawn and John won’t notice after a few more drinks.

Stiles looks down at his feet, shrugging. “Out with a friend.”

John’s eyes narrow. It feels like a police interrogation suddenly. “Just one friend?”

Stiles sighs. “Yes.”

“A date?”

The resounding silence is answer enough. John chuckles and pours himself another glass. The smell of it stings in Stiles’ nostrils. “I remember my first date with your mom. We were your age. Married only a couple years later.”

Stiles has heard this story before, the story of a perfect couple, a perfect marriage, and he knows how it ends, too. “I’m going to be late,”

John just nods. “Curfew,” He reiterates. “I want you home by eleven.”

Stiles agrees, just to practically flee from the room.

 

Derek’s waiting in the parking lot when Stiles arrives. He’s leaning against the Camaro, the perfect image of a cliche; Sexy car, stubbled cheeks, and leather jacket. All that’s missing is a cigarette pressed between his lips. He actually smiles when Stiles stumbles out of the jeep. He touches Stiles’ elbow, steering him toward the diner without a word.

Once seated in a quiet corner, they’re handed a couple of menus and then left alone. Almost immediately, Stiles starts doing what he does best; he rambles. At first he talks about how different Belleville is from his town back in California, which leads to talking about Allison and how much he misses his best friend. He’s telling the story of when his mom had once taught Allison how to make her special chocolate chip cookies using the “old family recipe” that she’d never even told to Stiles, when Derek laughs. The sound is so peaceful and reminiscent that it makes Stiles stutter over his words. He wants to hear it again.

“What was she like?” Stiles asks. “Your mom.”

A smile forms on Derek’s lips, but it’s sad. He watches his food, his brow furrowed, and shrugs. “Like any mom, I guess.”

“Oh, that’s a cop-out,” Stiles accuses. “I mean, I only had one mom, but I’m pretty sure there’s something special about all of them.” He leans forward, abandoning the last of his curly fries to lean his elbows on the table. He lowers his voice. “Tell me something about her, something you’ve never told anyone.”

Derek thinks about it for a long time, and when he finally looks up there’s a distance in his eyes. Like he’s looking into eternity. “Running.” He smiles again. “Every Sunday, she would wake me up before everyone else and we would run through the preserve. There’s this spot that overlooks the entire town. She always swore she could see straight to New York. We would sit there and watch the sunrise together.”

Feeling a surge of courage, Stiles reaches across the table to find Derek’s hand. Their fingers intertwine. Derek doesn’t say anything, but he smiles again, and that’s all Stiles needs.

Derek has to release Stiles’ hold when he pays for the meal, but their arms bump when they leave the diner and Derek slides his hand into Stiles’ again.

When they reach the Jeep, Stiles leans against the door. He pulls Derek closer, not yet willing to let the night end. “Everybody warned me to stay away from you, not to piss you off.”

Derek snorts. “I’ve realized you don’t listen much.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. I’m bad with following directions.”

“One of your many flaws,” Derek says. “Along with the fact that you don’t take your safety into consideration.”

“Right,” Stiles nods. “Because you’re dangerous.”

“Very.” Derek steps closer, crowding Stiles against the jeep. With the hand not holding onto Stiles, he brushes his fingertips against Stiles’ jaw.

“I don’t feel endangered,” Stiles says. His heart his pounding in his chest, thrumming frantically. He’s flirting with Derek, and Derek is flirting back. He presses in closer, his nose bumping Derek’s and knocking his glasses askew, but he doesn’t care.

Derek exhales slowly, his breath fanning warm across Stiles’ cheeks. “You’re oblivious,” He says, but there’s a softness to his voice that makes the words seem not so bad. “Reckless. Careless.”

“I’m pretty sure those last two are synonyms,” Stiles points out.

Derek smirks. “You’re also kind of irresistible.”

“Then maybe you should stop trying to resist, and just kiss me already.”

He’d said it mostly as a joke, so Stiles yelps in surprise when Derek leans forward and captures his lips. Stiles’ brain registers after a split second and he reaches out to grasp Derek’s jacket, holding him there like he might change his mind.

Derek presses closer, his mouth warm as it slides against Stiles’. And then suddenly there’s a tongue against his lip, tentative, almost teasing in the way it drags slowly. Stiles shivers, and totally blames the cool night air and not the taste of Derek that settles on his tongue. The stubble is rough on his cheeks, a contrast to the softness of his lips. 

But, because sometimes the universe just sucks, a phone starts ringing. Stiles and Derek jump apart, both going for their respective cells. It’s Derek who sighs and presses the phone to his ear. “Scott?”

“Derek!” Stiles can just barely make out the panicked voice on the other end of the call. “Holy shit-- went by the house-- running perimeter and-- Don’t know how they got past but-- A fucking body, Derek!”

Stiles’s eyes widen. Derek looks down at him, and then steps away. He lowers his voice, calm and stern when he says, “It’s at the house?...Have you called anyone else?...No, no cops...I’m on my way.” He hangs up and then turns to face Stiles.

Stiles inhales sharply and the lingering taste of Derek’s tongue feels bitter in his mouth. “Please tell me I misheard that.”

Derek frowns. “You misheard that.”

“Oh fuck you, Derek.”

So Derek sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s a lot to explain Stiles. Please, you just have to trust me.”

Stiles folds his arms across his chest, and then brushes past Derek because he just needs to move. Can’t hold still. When he reaches the Camaro, he turns back. He throws his arms up, but he keeps his voice low-- He’s panicking, but he’s not stupid. “There is a dead body at your house. And Scott called you instead of the police?”

“You should go home, Stiles,” Derek says. He’s still calm. How the fuck is he so calm!? 

“This is crazy, Derek! You didn’t kill anyone; I was with you the whole night. So what the hell are you hiding?”

Derek doesn’t answer. He watches the ground for an uncomfortable amount of time, almost like he’s trying to decide if he should answer. When he finally looks back up, his eyes are glimmering a bright red.

It’s a trick of the light, Stiles reasons. He’s seeing things. But the red doesn’t go away. It’s like staring into pools of fresh blood.

Stiles’ heart skips a beat, fear rises in his chest, but he narrows his eyes, determination tramping all of his other emotions. “Get in the damn car,” He commands. “I’m sick of the cryptic shit, dude. You’re gonna give me some answers.”


	11. .Eleven.

“You’re a vampire.”

They’re the first words spoken in the ten minutes they’ve been in the car, and admittedly Stiles probably could have chosen a better opener, but he’s still kind of freaking the fuck out.

“That’s why you told me to read _Carmilla_ , because you’re a fucking gay vampire.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look in Stiles’ direction when he says, “I’m not a vampire.”

Stiles sits back in the passenger's seat, crossing his arms. He doesn’t want to play the guessing game, he wants answers. So he waits.

Eventually, Derek sighs. His voice sounds pained when he says, “I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you involved at all, but you’re like a magnet for danger.”

“Danger like you,” Stiles says, recalling the way Derek had warned him to stay away. Stiles had brushed it off then, but now he’s rethinking that decision.

Derek’s jaw tightens. “I’m not the only dangerous person in this town.”

“Two people are dead,” Stiles scoffs. “I’m starting to realize that.” He’s quiet for a second before he asks, “Do you know who killed Harry Spangler?”

Derek chews on his lip and then shakes his head. “No. I have a guess, but no I don’t know for certain.”

“Well who do you think did it?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. He stops the car, takes the keys out of the ignition and then turns to face Stiles. “Mikey Way.”

Without waiting for a response, Derek abandons the car. Stiles’ brain lags a bit, taking a moment to comprehend what Derek is saying. Then he’s scrambling out of the car to follow. “You think Mikey’s a vampire!” Stiles realizes. He trips over a stray tree branch in his hurry to catch up with Derek. “That’s why you wanted me to read the book. Why you think he killed Harry. He’s a vampire!”

Derek doesn’t reply, he keeps his focus ahead of them, walking with intent. Up ahead in the distance there’s a house. Perhaps house is too simple of a word. It’s like a mansion. Stiles would take the time to appreciate it, but right now he’s got enough running through his head without dissecting the decor.

It makes sense in a crazy way. His ice cold touch, the way he seems to appear out of thin air, moving across the parking lot so fast. Honestly, Stiles wouldn’t even believe it if he hadn’t suspected something in the first place; He knew there was something weird about Mikey, could feel the almost inhuman presence around him.

“Wait,” Stiles pushes his feet faster, trying to keep up with Derek’s long strides. “If you’re not a vampire, what are you?”

Derek stops. They’re still a few hundred yards from the house, but he stops walking so suddenly that Stiles runs into him, stumbling back a step. Tilting his face to the wind, Derek’s eyes glow red again. He doesn’t move.

Stiles glances around at the dark forest surrounding them, feeling vulnerable and cold all of a sudden. He wishes he had worn something warmer than flannel. “What are you doing?” He whispers.

“Calling Scott.” Derek waits a moment longer and then… then he tilts his head back and he fucking howls.

The sound echoes off the trees, sending a shiver down Stiles’ spine. It twists in his gut, like a physical pull. It’s like rubbing a balloon on his arms, static picking up in the air around him, and his hair stands on end. Goosebumps arise on his skin. “Holy shit,” He whispers, sounding awed. “Werewolf. Oh, that’s so fucking cool.”

There’s a sound of leaves rustling to their left. Stiles whirls around just as Scott appears, only… it’s not really Scott. His features are animalistic, warped and monstrous. Claws tip his fingers instead of blunt nails, and canine teeth protrude from either side of his mouth. His eyes glow a shade of yellow, bright in the moonlight. Stiles stumbles back a step.

Just as quickly, Scott’s face is returning to normal. His teeth and claws disappear, but his eyes flash that intimidating yellow at Derek. “What is he doing here!?” Scott demands. “Are you crazy, Derek?”

Derek just frowns. “You interrupted our date.”

Scott frowns back. He casts a wary look in Stiles’ direction, his eyes returning to their normal color.

“Did you tell the others?” Derek asks. His voice is calm, in control. For some reason it makes Stiles relax.

Scott reluctantly looks away from Stiles. He shakes his head. “I called you first. I thought I caught a scent in the woods, tried to follow it, but I lost it when I started nearing town.”

“And the body,” Derek says. “Do you know it is?”

Another shake of his head. “No. I didn’t get close enough to see, but I could smell the blood.”

Derek nods. “I smell it, too.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Go home, Scott. Inform the pack, no one else. As far as anyone else is concerned, you know nothing. You weren’t here tonight. Got it?”

Scott takes one last look at Stiles, swallows hard, but nods and follows his orders. He turns and runs back into the cover of the trees, disappearing. Like he was never there.

Derek waits a few minutes before he turns to Stiles. “I’ve been scent marking you.” And, of all the things Stiles expected him to say, that was probably the last.

“I’m sorry, you’ve been what?”

“Scent marking,” Derek explains. He shifts on his feet, looking sort of embarrassed as he stuffs his hand into his pockets. “It’s a werewolf thing. Like… Claiming. It’s how wolves from different packs tell if you belong to someone.”

“The touching,” Stiles realizes. He reaches up and runs his fingertips along his jaw, the same way Derek had done to him. He imagines Derek’s scent lingering there, like leaving a piece of himself behind.

Derek nods, looking distressed. “I was trying to warn Mikey to stay away from you.”

Stiles sighs, his voice distant when he says, “Because he’s a vampire. And you’re a werewolf.”

Again, Derek nods.

Stiles lets out a hysterical sounding laugh, sitting down in the middle of the forest floor. He breathes slowly, trying to take it all in. After a moment, Derek joins him. There’s a few feet between them as Derek tries to keep his distance and not scare Stiles anymore than he already has.

“Someone’s trying to frame you,” Stiles states. “It started with Harry. They staged it to look like your sister’s death. And now they’re literally leaving bodies on your doorstep. You really think it’s Mikey?”

“We’re adversaries,” Derek explains. “The werewolves and the vampires. We’re both territorial, and we’re both trying to claim Belleville.”

“Vampires,” Stiles notes. “Plural. There’s more than just Mikey?” And then it hits him and it feels like the wind it knocked out of his chest. “Pete Wentz. Oh man, Pete is a vampire, too.”

“Along with his brother and his friends,” Derek adds.

“Oh fuck, I suck at making friends,” Stiles groans. He buries his face in his hands. “This is insane.”

Derek is quiet for a few minutes, before he says, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

Stiles snorts. “You tried to keep me out of it. That’s why you didn’t want to date me. You were trying to keep me safe.” Stiles scoots a little closer, still leaving about a foot of space between them. “But you changed your mind. Why?”

“I thought I could keep you safer if you stayed close, where I could keep an eye on you.” He smiles, looking down. “And like I said, you’re kind of irresistible.”

Slowly, Stiles leans closer, pressing his lips to Derek’s again. It’s a small kiss, nothing like the one they’d shared earlier, but it lightens something in Stiles’ chest. It makes it all seem real and just a little bit easier to handle. When he pulls back, he bites his lip. “What are you going to do about the body?”

“You should go home,” Derek says. He stands, pulling Stiles to his feet. “I can give you a ride back to the diner and then I’ll call the cops.”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “No way, dude. I’m your alibi.”

“I’ll think of something--” Derek starts to say, but Stiles reaches out and grabs his hand.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Stiles states. It’s not a question because he can feel it in his gut, he knows that Derek is innocent. There’s a part of him screaming to run like hell because this cannot be happening, he can’t trust Derek. But another part whispers that he can. If Derek wanted to hurt him, he’d had plenty of chances before now. But he trusted Stiles with his secret, he trusted Stiles to know what exactly what he was when that knowledge alone could put Derek, his entire pack and species, in danger. Derek trusted Stiles. And that makes it all a little bit easier when Stiles sets his stance and says, “I’m not leaving you alone to take the heat for this. Come on.”

He starts to pull Derek toward the house. Derek falls into step with him, slowly matching his stride. “What are we doing?”

“We’re finishing our date,” Stiles says like it’s obvious. Like his whole world didn’t just flip upside down because vampires and werewolves are apparently a thing that exist. “We finished dinner and then you decided to take me home with you. That’s when we stumbled across the body.”

Derek stops abruptly, pulling Stiles to a halt with him. His brow his furrowed, drawn down in confusion. “Why are you doing this? You can leave now, Stiles. You don’t have to be involved.”

“You scent marked me or whatever because you said it’s what pack does,” Stiles says. “Because you wanted to protect me, because you care about me. Right? Now I’m going to protect you, because I care about you.” Stiles looks down at their interlocked hands, rubbing the pad of his thumb across Derek’s knuckles.

“You should be running away from me,” Derek says sadly, like he’s trying to convince Stiles and himself. “You shouldn’t even believe me. I know how crazy it sounds.”

“You still have a lot to tell me,” Stiles says. “But I saw Scott and he--” Stiles cuts off, sighing and shaking his head, trying to rid it of the image of his half-animal friend. “We need to take care of one thing at a time, starting with the body on your front porch. Then you’re going to explain everything.”

Derek slowly nods.

“Alright. Good.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go discover a dead body.”


	12. .Twelve.

Stiles was used to seeing dead bodies in his dad’s files. It was like a horror movie, a picture on a screen or, on those occasions when Stiles followed John to crime scenes, from afar. But when Stiles and Derek find themselves facing a real dead human body, a body he realizes he knows, Stiles loses his cool.

The first thing he does is throw up. And then he enters full-on panic mode and starts hyperventilating.

Derek doesn’t say anything. He holds Stiles to his chest as he cries, breathing harsh and ragged, jerky inhales and sobbing exhales. He tries to focus on the smell of Derek’s shirt pressed against his face, but there’s a coppery smell in his nose, burned into his nostrils. The smell of fresh blood. A lot of it.

When Stiles retrieves his phone with shaking hands, he doesn’t even have to feign shock. He makes a frantic phone call to the police station and then he waits.

Derek keeps Stiles tucked into his side, arm around his shoulders. Stiles can’t stop shaking, but his breathing has mostly returned to normal. That’s how the police find them.

They’re moved away from the porch, which is cordoned off with yellow tape, but Derek doesn’t let Stiles go. Stiles is grateful. Until he sees another cruiser, lights flashing and sirens blaring, sail up the driveway. The driver doesn’t bother to turn the car off or shut the door when he scrambles out. He runs directly toward the crime scene tape.

“Dad,” Stiles croaks. His mouth is dry, throat tight, but he steps forward and calls out again. “Dad!”

John spins around. A second later, he’s crashing into Stiles, wrapping the boy in a vise like hug. Then he pulls Stiles back, holding him at arm’s length. He looks him over, checking for any immediate signs of harm.

“I’m okay,” Stiles tells him.

But John looks far from convinced. “What the hell are you doing here?!” He demands. “It’s almost midnight! You were supposed to be home an hour ago! I thought you were--” His words are choked off with a sob rising in his throat. The image of the dead body flashes through Stiles head.

“No, Dad I’m okay,” Stiles repeats. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be late.”

“What are you doing here?” John asks again. “Were you listening to the police scanner?” He looks around the area, frowning. “Where is your Jeep?”

“It’s at the diner,” Stiles explains. “I wasn’t listening to the scanner, I swear. It was... “ He inhales slowly, his lip shaking. “We found the body. Me and Derek.”

John steps back, looking suspicious. “Derek?” His gaze finds the other boy, just beyond Stiles’ shoulder. “You were supposed to be on a date, not hanging around in the middle of the woods. Did you lie to me?”

“No.” He reaches back and touches his hand to Derek’s. Their fingers interlock. But Stiles doesn’t elaborate. His dad is a cop, he knows he’ll figure it out. And he watches the expression in John’s eyes as he puts it together. He looks between Stiles and Derek, toward the house, and then levels a finger with Stiles’ chest. “We’re talking about that later. For now, I’m just glad you’re okay.” He wraps Stiles in another bone crushing hug. 

John hovers while Stiles and Derek give their statements. Deputy Donna Hanscum, as she introduces herself, asks them a few questions.

“The boy,” Hanscum says, pen hovering over a notepad, ready to catch every word. “Do you recognize him?”

Stiles swallows down the bile he can feel rising in his throat. He nods. “Yeah. His name is Ed. I don’t know his last name. He was friends with Harry Spangler.”

Deputy Hanscum tilts her head curiously, but writes it down.

“Do you think it’s connected?” Stiles asks. He looks over at his dad. “First Harry and now Ed. It’s not just a coincidence, is it?”

The deputy frowns, glancing at John. There’s a silent conversation there. It’s Deputy Hanscum who smiles stiffly and waves a hand through the air. “It’s probably nothing, kid. Just another animal attack.”

Stiles gives his dad a doubtful look, but doesn’t press the issue.

When they’re released a few minutes later, John tries to lead Stiles away. He glares pointedly at Derek, but Stiles hangs back. “Derek can drive me back to the diner,” Stiles insists.

But John doesn’t budge. “I’m not letting you out of my sights,” He says. “We’re going straight home. We can get your Jeep tomorrow.”

Stiles sighs. There’s no use arguing. “Fine,” He agrees. “Just let me say goodnight.”

Reluctantly, John nods. He goes to wait in the car, but Stiles can see him watching them through the windshield. “You can’t stay here tonight,” Stiles says.

“I can stay with Scott or Boyd. Don’t worry about me.” Derek reaches up to trail his fingers along Stiles’ jaw, and this time Stiles shamelessly leans into the touch. “Thank you for tonight.”

Stiles chuckles dryly. “Well, I must say, it was definitely a memorable first date.”

“Let’s try not to find a dead body on the next one.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Are you asking me out again?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he frowns. “You should be terrified of me, Stiles. And here you are hitting on me.”

Stiles shrugs. “I have no instinct for self-preservation. So what do you say, big guy?” He leans in, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist, burying his nose in the crook of Derek’s neck so they’re not overheard by the surrounding cops. “On date number two, you can tell me all about werewolves and vampires. Maybe even show me your claws.”

Derek laughs, the sound and breath right against his neck. He suppresses a shiver, especially when he feels Derek’s blunt teeth scrape teasingly against his throat. “Do you have a werewolf fetish I should know about?”

Stiles feigns a gasp. “Are you kink-shaming me?”

“Remember when I said I would regret asking you out? I’m regretting it right now.” But he can feel Derek smiling against his neck. They hold on for just a few moments longer before Derek sighs. “Your dad is getting impatient. He’s been muttering death threats at me this entire time.”

Stiles pulls back, eyes wide, and looks back at the police cruiser at least twenty feet away. “Holy shit, you can hear that far? That’s so cool. What else can you do?”

“Mind reading,” Derek says seriously, and when Stiles gapes at him, he chuckles. “I’m kidding, Stiles. But seriously, you should go before your dad actually shoots me.”

“He won’t shoot you in front of all of these witnesses,” Stiles says with ease. And then he wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him in for one last lingering kiss. That’s when John lays on the horn. Stiles reluctantly let’s go, leaving Derek and the dead boy behind.

 

John is eerily silent on the drive home, but as soon as they’re safely in the living room, all hell breaks loose. “What the hell were you thinking, Stiles?!”

Stiles shrinks back on himself, not willing to fight with his dad tonight. He sighs. “We already had the safe sex talk, Dad.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” John huffs angrily, though his tone suggests otherwise. “But what were you thinking, going back to his house?”

Stiles meets his dad’s gaze, trying to understand the question here when he thought he’d made the intent pretty damn obvious. “Well, we weren’t going to do it in the backseat of his car.” Stiles tries not to blush because honestly, he’d totally do Derek in the backseat of his car.

John’s face turns red. He looks like he might pop a vein if he doesn’t calm down. “Derek Hale is an alleged murderer, Stiles. Don’t think I haven’t seen the Laura Hale case file. And you went home with him?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open. “That’s why you’re mad? Dad, he was exonerated. He didn’t kill anyone!”

“There was a body on his doorstep tonight, Stiles. What if it had been yours?”

_ Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. _

Stiles frowns, but he can’t think of a single thing to say. His dad’s mind is already set, Stiles can see that.

He doesn’t expect it when his dad gives him a disappointed look and says, “What would your mom think?”

And that makes something snap inside Stiles. “What?”

“You’re hanging out with criminals.” John shakes his head sadly. “Sneaking out to have sex. Missing curfew.”

“Mom would have trusted me!” Stiles yells. He throws his hands around, the anger boiling in his veins too much to hold still. He wants to hit something. “But you don’t trust me, do you Dad? I didn’t lie to you, I told you where I was going tonight! Do you even remember the conversation? Or were you too drunk? It’s hard to tell anymore, since you’re drunk most of the time.”

John narrows his eyes. “That’s not true--”

But Stiles scoffs. “I stole your laptop. Your county issued, official police laptop? I stole it. And you didn’t even notice. You got shit-faced and passed out. So don’t insinuate that it’s  _ me  _ that Mom would be disappointed in.”

There’s silence in the air, and then John sits down on the edge of the coffee table. The anger in Stiles seems to deflate, but he doesn’t sit. Instead, he crosses his arms in defiance and admits, “I think it’s a copycat killer.”

Stiles recognizes his Cop Face ™ as John tries to look at the situation objectively. “How is that?”

“Well, uh…” Stiles fidgets, grimacing. “When I stole your laptop, I went through Laura Hale’s case, what wasn’t classified. And I went through Harry Spangler’s. There were things that matched up.”

John shrugs one shoulder. “Things like…?”

“Like the fact that they were both staged to look like animal attacks.”

John is shaking his head. “Laura Hale--”

“--Was officially killed by an animal,” Stiles waves a hand around, dismissing the notion. “That’s bullshit and you know it. If you believed it was an animal that killed her, you wouldn’t be so pissed that I was with Derek tonight.” When John doesn’t argue, Stiles takes it as his cue to go on. “She was literally severed in half. And the wounds were made post-mortem, just like Harry. Both of them were missing organs. And I know for a fact that no animal strangled Harry Spangler.”

John frowns. “Alright, but just because Harry was murdered doesn’t mean it leads back to Laura’s case. Post-mortem lacerations and missing organs isn’t a connection, Stiles. It’s a coincidence.”

“Yeah, because once is an incident and twice is a coincidence,” Stiles says. Then he looks straight at his dad and asks, “Then what about the body tonight? What does that make Ed?”

It’s reluctant, but John sighs. “Three times is a pattern.”

Stiles sits back. “But I don’t think it was the same killer. Whoever killed Laura Hale knew what they were doing. Harry’s death, I think it was done by an amateur.”

“So you think whoever killed Harry is copying Laura Hale’s killer.” John leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The only suspect they ever had in that case was Derek Hale. And you’ve got to admit, a body turning up on his porch is pretty damn suspicious. How can you be so sure that he’s innocent now?”

“I feel it,” Stiles admits. “It’s a gut feeling. I know for a fact that he did not kill Ed tonight, and I don’t believe he killed Harry or Laura either.”

John is silent for a long time. Eventually he nods, sighs, and says, “Okay.”

Stiles hesitates because that seems way too easy. “Okay?”

“Okay,” His dad repeats. “I trust you. And I will look into it, alright? As long as you promise to stay out of it. No more listening to police scanners, no more looking for dead bodies. Stay out of the case, Stiles. And please, for the love of God, stay away from Derek Hale.”

Stiles closes his eyes. He breathes slowly in and out, sending a silent prayer out to his mother. It would all be so much easier if she were still alive. But in the end, Stiles just nods. “Yeah,” He lies. “I’ll stay away from Derek.”


	13. .Thirteen.

Stiles doesn’t sleep that night. He tries. After the conversation with his father, he climbs into bed and pulls the covers up to his neck. He shivers for a while, feeling cold for no explicable reason. The dark shadows seem to move around him, like ghosts floating through the air. He squeezes his eyes closed.

Of course, that only makes it worse. The image of Ed flickers through his head like a horror movie. He’s seen dead bodies before, on screens and in photos, even from afar. But this is different. It’s real.

He tosses and turns for a long time. He turns on the light. He hasn’t sleep with the light on since he was a kid. Back then, it was simpler things that scared him. Boogeymen and clowns and giant spiders who’d wrap him up in a web. Now it’s different. He doesn’t see those things. He sees black framed glasses crushed against a broken skull. Red blood congealing in red hair. And this time, it’s not a nightmare he can just wake up from.

Stiles hears when his dad goes back to work. He can feel it, too; the emptiness that settles around him, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Stiles finds his cell phone and pulls Allison up in his contacts. He wants to hear her voice, her calming reassurance that everything is okay. She’s talked him down from more than a few panic attacks, she can handle this if he just tells her everything. But he can’t. If he starts talking, he won’t stop. He’ll tell her all about Ed’s body and the date with Derek and the fact that Derek has red eyes because he’s a motherfucking werewolf.

With a sigh, Stiles discards the phone and gives up on trying to sleep.

It’s too quiet. He needs something to drown out the sound of silence. His skin is buzzing with energy, an adrenaline he needs to unload. It starts with pacing the length of his bedroom floor, fingers tugging at his hair. He doesn’t even notice he’s walked farther until he’s downstairs. Stopped, staring at the contents of his father’s liquor cabinet.

There’s some bourbon, brandy, and absinthe. He thinks of his dad, the way he drinks himself into oblivion. It’s easy. John probably won’t even notice if any is missing. All Stiles has to do is reach out and take it, and then it’s bye-bye nightmares.

It sounds enticing. He hasn’t actually slept without nightmares since his mom died. She’s usually the only ghost haunting his dreams. Tonight, Stiles thinks, Ed’s ghost might join her for awhile.

He grabs the absinthe and a clean glass, pours himself half a cup. It smells bad and the first sip stings. It’s bitter on his tongue. He has the sudden urge to scrape it off.

Stiles pours the rest down the drain and puts the bottle back. He takes some adderall instead. If he can’t sleep, he might as well distract himself.

He starts by jamming in two earbuds and finding the loudest music he can, turning the volume up as much as he can stand it. Sitting at his desk, he makes a list of things he knows, starting off with bullet point one; Derek is a werewolf. Stiles’ thoughts wander back to the absinthe in the cabinet and he contemplates once again how easy it would be to just drink himself to sleep. To feel numb, to forget the images now burned into his mind. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

In the end, Stiles does what he does best; he turns on his laptop, tries to focus, and throws himself into research.

 

The hours pass, but Stiles isn’t sure just how many. He’s vaguely aware of the sun rising outside the window, though it doesn’t really register that sunrise equals morning. In fact, he only jolts back into reality when his phone dies, the music in his ears instantly disappearing.

Stiles sighs. His ears hurt from having the buds pressed in for too long and his eyes are blurry. He digs the palms of his hands into his sockets, trying to push back the exhaustion he hadn’t realized was creeping up on him. From his desk drawer, he digs the bottle of Adderall out and swallows another one. He spins the chair around, stretching and yawning, only to find he’s not alone.

Derek is perched on the edge of his bed, his jacket lying on the mattress next to him. Casual. Stiles, on the other hand, is far from casual. He flails, chokes on air, and gasps, “Holy shit, dude!”

Derek raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t say anything.

“How long have you been there?”

Derek shrugs. “Half an hour?”

“What if my dad comes home?” Stiles crosses the room to lock his door, just in case John decides to barge in.

“He’s already here,” Derek says, but thankfully keeps his voice low. “He’s asleep.”

“My dad didn’t let you in,” Stiles states. It’s not a question, because Stiles clearly remembers the rule set in place last night; no seeing Derek Hale. And that would definitely include letting him into Stiles’ room, to sit on Stiles’ bed, while Stiles is utterly unaware. “How’d you get in here?”

“Window,” Derek says. “You should start locking it, by the way. Anyone could come through there.”

Not really anyone, since it’s a second story window, but Stiles snorts. “Anyone like you?”

Derek isn’t kidding when he nods seriously. “Yes.”

Stiles settles back into the desk chair. There’s a distance of maybe three feet between him and Derek, a distance Stiles wants very much to close. He yawns again.

Derek frowns. “How much sleep did you get?”

“None,” Stiles admits. He looks at his phone, but remembers it just died. He leaves it on the desk. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.” Derek doesn’t even look at a clock. Maybe it’s a werewolf thing, just innately knowing the time. Judging it based on the sunrise or alignment of the stars or some shit. “You should sleep.”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand, saying, “I’ll sleep later,” though he has no real intention to do so.

It surprises him when Derek’s frown deepens. “Lie.”

Stiles hesitates. “What?”

“Your heart skipped when you said you’ll sleep later,” Derek says. “You lied.”

“You can hear my heartbeat,” Stiles wonders. He knows Derek has super hearing, but it seems so much realer in the light of day. In the night, anything seems possible. But with the sunlight filtering into Stiles’ bedroom, it’s different. “You’re a werewolf,” he says, because that is never going to get old.

Derek just nods.

“Say it,” Stiles commands. “I want to know I’m not crazy.”

Derek’s face is stoic, emotionless when he finally says, “Yes, Stiles. I am a werewolf.”

“I have questions,” Stiles says. “And I’m too tired to deal with half truths and one syllable words, so I want you to answer without all the cryptic bullshit. Deal?” He wants to fall into bed and sleep for a century. But he’s in the middle of a real-life sci-fi movie right now, so sleep is pushed to the back of his mind. He scrambles for where to begin his interrogation. He figures maybe start at the beginning. “Were you born like this?”

Derek looks nervous, like he’s being questioned for a crime. He fidgets on the bed for a moment and then clears his throat. “Yeah. My mother was a ‘wolf, as were her parents, and those before them. It’s in our blood.”

A hereditary thing. Like brown hair or big ears. “Was everyone in your family a werewolf? I read online that the ‘wolf gene can skip whole generations.”

“My brother,” Derek says, and there’s a flash of a reminiscent smile on his lips before it just as quickly vanishes. “He died in the fire, but he was human. So was my dad. A few of my cousins.”

“You were born this way, but were you actually…” Stiles pauses, tries to think of a better way to phrase the question. “I don’t know… born that way?”

Derek looks at him oddly for a moment and then laughs. The sound makes Stiles feel warmer inside. “You mean, did I come out of my mother with claws and fangs? No. Nobody does. It’s like puberty. You can show signs before, like flashing eyes, but it doesn’t really settle in until about twelve or thirteen. That’s when you can start to shift.”

“You said flashing eyes,” Stiles notes. “Your eyes were red.” As if to affirm this, Derek’s eyes momentarily flicker crimson. He looks down quickly. “How come Scott’s were yellow?”

“I’m an Alpha,” Derek says simply. He still doesn’t look up. “Scott is a Beta.”

“Alpha, Beta, Omega,” Stiles says. “I read that online. So that’s a real thing?”

“Probably not in the way you’re thinking.” Derek fidgets his hands a little, nervous. Stiles realizes he’s probably never told anyone all this before. “The internet gets a lot of things wrong. I’m an Alpha because I was born a werewolf,” Derek explains. “Scott has yellow eyes because he’s a Beta. He was turned.”

“Turned,” Stiles repeats. “Like… bitten?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but yeah. Basically.”

“Is the hierarchy real?” Stiles asks. “Alpha is in charge of the pack, then Beta’s are middle class, and Omega’s are bitches?

“No,” Derek shakes his head. “Alpha’s are usually seen as superior, yes, but only because we have the werewolf blood in us. Because we’re usually better at control. It’s more natural. But it’s total bullshit that Beta’s are submissive, lower level ‘wolves. Scott hates following my orders. Erica usually fights me on everything I say. It’s more of a democracy than an hierarchy.”

“What about Omega’s?”

“Lone wolves,” Derek explains. “Usually feral. They’re ‘wolves that have lost touch with their human side. They don’t have packs or any sort of connection to reality. They’re alone.”

“But you have a pack,” Stiles asks. “Scott, and this Erica person?”

Derek nods, but apparently doesn’t feel like elaborating. Stiles decides to divert the topic, with no tact at all, when he asks, “So you grow claws and fangs and your eyes change color. What else can you do?”

Derek looks uncomfortable and Stiles immediately regrets asking.

“Sorry, that’s too personal, right?” Stiles grimaces.

But Derek shakes his head. “No, it’s just…” He sighs, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. Vulnerable. “We hide for a reason. It’s not like I’m Superman. When people find out what we are, they don’t react well. Have you heard of the werewolf witch trials? That was centuries ago, and it hasn’t gotten easier. They hunt us because we’re monsters. Creatures of the night. Horror movie villains.” He looks up, directly meeting Stiles’ gaze. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, Stiles.”

Stiles swallows thickly around the sudden lump in his throat. Derek can probably hear the acceleration in his heart, but he moves to sit next to Derek on the bed. There’s guilt settling in his gut, churning his insides, because this is the first time that Derek has told anyone this and Stiles is probing him for answers. Like he’s some sort of science experiment.

With a surge of courage, Stiles reaches out to grab Derek’s hand, talking while he does so. “You heard me lie earlier. You said it was my heart, you heard it skip.” He presses Derek’s hand to his neck, right above his pulse point. He doesn’t break eye contact. “So listen to me now.” He probably has morning breath, even though he didn’t sleep, but he’s mere inches from Derek’s face and his breath fans across Derek’s cheeks. “I’m not scared of you. I know you’re dangerous. I’ve seen enough werewolf movies to know the drill; you could probably rip me limb from limb. But you won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

And honestly, Stiles isn’t sure. This is all kind of new territory for him. But it’s new for Derek, too. If Derek wanted to hurt Stiles, he’s had plenty of chances. Right now, for instance. Or in the woods. At the diner. After lacrosse practice. But Derek didn’t hurt him. Instead, he told him the truth. Even if that meant putting himself, his pack, in danger.

Derek trusts him. For some inexplicable reason, Derek chose him to share this part of himself with. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde; Derek was always two parts that made up one whole, and he was constantly hiding one half. And in this moment, he’s lying it all out, as terrifying as it must be.

It doesn’t really make sense but Stiles understands because he trusts Derek, too. Derek gets him in a way no one else does. He’s talked about his mom’s death and his dad’s drinking and Derek doesn’t pity him, doesn’t say he’s sorry for things he can’t control. For the first time since his mom got sick, Stiles isn’t shielding himself from everyone. He’s letting someone in.

Instead of trying to put it into words, Stiles presses against Derek and uses his mouth for other purposes. Tries to show Derek just how much he trusts him. Stiles knows that it took a lot of trust to tell Stiles everything, and now Stiles wants to return that trust as much as he can.

Stiles almost expects Derek to push him away, but when strong hands slide up his sides, it’s to pull him closer. Derek deepens the kiss with just as much urgency as Stiles feels.

They kiss for what seems like hours. Cautious and curious mouths tasting one another not for the first time, but really having the chance to explore. Stiles likes the feeling of Derek’s tongue on his lips, the rub of stubble on his cheeks. He likes the way Derek’s hair feels under his fingers. And when Derek pulls Stiles into his lap, he loves the way Derek’s poorly concealed hard on feels against his own, how perfectly Derek’s hands feel on the back of his jeans.

He’s never done this before. He’s made out with a couple of people, boys and girls alike, but nothing ever like this. Nothing that ever felt even remotely this good. Maybe it’s another werewolf thing; they’re all sex gods.

Stiles gasps Derek’s name, a breathy question and answer wrapped up in the single word. He wants more. More skin, more kissing, more hands, more tongue. Just more  _ Derek _ .

When Derek lets out a noise, somewhere between a growl and a moan, Stiles takes it as a cue to continue.

Stiles pushes his hips down against Derek’s. His fingers are clumsy where they tug at the button of his jeans and he pulls back enough to look down and see what he’s doing. The image of their bodies so close, hips rocking together, it’s enough to make Stiles want to come right then and there. Stiles manages to pop open the button of Derek’s jeans, reattaching their lips in a victory kiss.

But then Derek pulls away. His eyes are fire red and it really shouldn’t turn Stiles on as much as it does. Derek removes Stiles from his lap and Stiles panics; he’s gone too far, too soon. He’s fucked all of this up. He starts to apologize, but Derek shakes his head, shushing him. “Your dad’s awake.”

Oh. Right. They’re not alone in this house. Stiles scrambles to get under the blankets while Derek unlocks the door and hides himself in the closet. Only a second later, the door creaks open.

Stiles is facing the wall, trying to calm his breathing and pretend to be asleep. John steps into the bedroom, simply standing there for a moment. Just watching Stiles. The minutes tick by and Stiles waits for his dad to say something, but nothing comes. Eventually he sighs, straightens the blankets over his son, and leaves again. Stiles doesn’t move until he hears the shower start.

Derek doesn’t get back on the bed. He stands in the middle of the floor where John had just been. “That was close.”

“Yeah, thank the gods for your Superman hearing.”

Derek still doesn’t move and Stiles starts to fidget. Maybe he really did fuck this up. “Are you gonna come here so I can kiss you some more?”

Derek leans down to kiss Stiles slowly. It’s softer than last time, simple. It feels like goodbye. “You should sleep.”

“You’re a tease.”

One side of Derek’s mouth quirks up in a smirk. “That was a lie.”

“Stupid werewolf lie detector.”

Derek presses another kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I’ll be back. I need to talk to my uncle.” His fingers trace Stiles’ jaw.

“You’re doing it again,” Stiles realizes. “The scent marking thing.”

To Stiles’ utter surprise and glee, Derek actually blushes. He starts to pull his hand back, but Stiles catches it. “Does it go both ways?” Stiles wonders. “The scent marking. Can other ‘wolves smell it on you?”

Derek hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. It goes both ways.” 

Stiles lifts his hand to Derek’s cheek. He could be totally out of line here and he hopes Derek will tell him if he’s breaking some werewolf code of conduct or something, but Derek doesn’t say anything. He just smiles. Without actually saying goodbye, he escapes through Stiles’ window just as Stiles hears the shower shut off.

Stiles lies back down on the bed and, finally, falls asleep.

 

 


	14. .Fourteen.

Monday morning, Stiles is the center of attention. It feels like he’s trapped in a bubble, behind a glass barrier. An animal in a zoo. People point and whisper as if he can’t hear them.

There’s another announcement, this time about Ed’s death, as well as a police enforced curfew of nine o’clock.

In film class, Stu claims Ed’s vacant seat. The sight of the empty chair had almost been enough to make Stiles sick. His stomach churned, his breath coming in short rasps. His eyes are closed and he’s trying to breathe normally when Stu flicks him in the head.

“So is it true what everybody is saying?”

Stiles doesn’t look up. “Probably,” he admits. “Is everybody saying I found the body?”

“No,” Randy slides into his seat in front of Stiles and twists his body around. “Everyone is saying you killed him.”

Stiles looks up now, feeling tired and sick. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Oh of course not.” Randy waves his hand dismissively. “I’m sure you didn’t. But let’s look at the facts, shall we? It’s a pretty small town. The most exciting thing to happen here was when Laura Hale turned up dead two years ago. Now you move here and two people are dead within a week. You have to admit, it’s pretty strange.”

“Not to mention,” Billy speaks up. His voice startles Stiles. He hadn’t seen him come in. Billy’s eyes narrow to slits as he glares at Stiles. It’s unnerving. “Your choice of friends makes you an instant suspect. Pete Wentz, who was connected to that Ross kid who went missing last year. Derek Hale, who was suspected of murdering his own sister. It’s suspicious.”

Stiles finds his eyes narrowing right back, both in defense and anger. “I didn’t fucking kill anybody.”

“You sure about that?” Billy presses, a twisted smile warping his features into something mean. “If I were the cops, you’d be the first person I would arrest. You were at the scene of the crime.” 

“I found the body,” Stiles corrects vehemently. “As for the murder, I have an alibi. Where’s your alibi, Billy?”

Stu raises his hand. “Billy was at my place,” he says, then chuckles. “And your alibi… is Derek Hale. Even if anyone believed that, nobody believes he’s innocent.”

“Yeah, what were you doing with Hale?” Randy wonders.

Stiles sighs, leaning back in his seat. He knows there’s no use hiding the truth; people will find out eventually and he’s not ashamed. “We were on a date,” Stiles says. “We went back to his house and that’s when we found Ed.”

Randy’s expression is a mix between terrified and awed. “You went back to Hale’s house?  _ With him?” _

Stiles just rolls his eyes.

Stu’s cackle sounds like a whip in the silence of the classroom. It becomes louder and more obnoxious as he laughs, banging his palm on the desk, then points a slender finger at Stiles. He manages to make words between gasping giggles. “You didn’t…. You were with…. Hale!... And you were...” He clutches a hand to his chest, breathing in short inhales through his nose. His eyes are watering when he finally manages to calm himself. He’s still smiling maniacally, covering his mouth with his hand. “You went out with Derek Hale, an alleged murderer? And then let him drive you back to his house in the middle of the woods to have sex?”

Even Randy is smiling now, but he covers his laugh with a cough. “Have you ever seen a horror movie, Stiles? That is how people die in this scenario.”

But Stiles can’t find the humor in it. Someone did die, even though it wasn’t him. This isn’t a horror movie, it’s real life. There’s a real explanation, a real murderer. Stiles frowns then and looks over at Stu. “I let him drive me back.”

Stu’s giggles taper off into nothing, his face becoming wary as he meets Stiles’ gaze. “What?”

“You said I let him drive me back to his house,” Stiles says. “How did you know he drove?”

Stu laughs softly again, shaking his head. Before he can formulate a response, Mr. Dewees comes into the room and sits on the front desk. He looks tired and sad as he folds his hands, no longer the usual bubbly and cheerful teacher he normally is. There’s a tension in the air, almost tangible, when class starts. Stiles tries his best to focus, but he finds his mind wandering back to the events of the weekend; the body and the blood, and Derek, his eyes and howl and kiss. Stiles lays his head down on the desk. If Mr. Dewees notices, he says nothing. He leaves Stiles alone and for the remainder of the class, Stiles can block it all out. He can pretend the two desks beside him didn’t belong to two dead boys, that the people he knows are just that; normal human people. For thirty minutes, Stiles can float through his own mind without feeling anything.

When the bell rings and they’re released for lunch, Stiles keeps his head down and starts toward the parking lot. He thought about going to the lacrosse field, but with his wrist still in the process of healing, he’s unable to play. There’s no way he’s sitting in the lunchroom surrounded by people who think he probably murdered one of their own classmates. Maybe he’ll call Allison, or at least text her. He hasn’t talked to her in days and she’s probably dying to know how the date with Derek went.

About ten feet short of his escape from the building, a hand falls on his shoulder. He looks up to meet soft blue eyes and a faint, pained smile.

“Mr. Novak,” Stiles croaks. His throat feels dry suddenly and he tries to swallow.

The guidance counselor nods once. “Mieczysław.” 

Stiles visibly flinches at the name. With a grimace, he says, “Nobody calls me that. It’s Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Mr. Novak repeats slowly. “I’d like to speak with you, if you have the time.”

Stiles really doesn’t want that. He recalls the last interaction he had with this man, fleeing his office when memories of his mother seemed to overflow and drown him. Mr. Novak seems to recall it, too, because he steps forward a bit. “You ran out so fast last time, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Fine,” Stiles mutters.

Mr. Novak doesn’t look convinced. “I know that you found Ed Zeddmore’s body this weekend.” Stiles flinches again. He feels his fingers twitching, the urge to run away again. He forces himself to remain still. “And I know it can be very traumatizing. Sometimes it helps to talk about it--”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Stiles snaps. Then he instantly feels guilty. He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you want to help, it’s your job, but I don’t want to talk about it. I had to talk to the police already and my dad was asking questions. I just want to forget about it.”

“Unfortunately,” Mr. Novak frowns. “It’s not something you can easily forget. But you’re right; you don’t have to talk to me. Not right now, not ever. But if you change your mind--”

Stiles nods quickly. “I know where to find you.”

He waits until Mr. Novak nods again, offering that same withering smile, before Stiles decides he’s being released. He spins around and this time escapes the school.

When he nears the jeep, Stiles stops. Leaning against the hood is Mikey Way. He smirks when he sees Stiles, straightening up and flicking his cigarette to the pavement. It grinds under the toe of his shoe but the smoke continues to rise.

Mikey tilts his head at Stiles, looking at him curiously. “The rumor mill is sure interested in you today.”

Stiles frowns. “I don’t really care about rumors.”

“No, you don’t.” Mikey continues to smile. It’s cold, stoney, predatorial. He opens the door to Stiles’ jeep, gesturing to it like a gentleman. “We should get some lunch. I’m starving.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Stiles swallows hard. There are people around, they’re not alone in the parking lot. Mikey most likely won’t try anything out here in the open, but Stiles thinks better of getting into a car with him. For a second, he thinks about screaming for Derek, or maybe even Scott. He’d probably hear and come to the rescue.

Mikey chuckles, rolling his eyes playfully. “For fucks sake, Stiles, I’m not trying to kidnap you. Relax. I just want to talk.”

Stiles glances back toward the lacrosse field. He could make a run for it, though he’s sure Mikey could stop him in an instant. Eventually Stiles climbs into the jeep and slams the door shut.

Mikey is dangerous. Stiles is well aware.

But he also might have answers.

Mikey gracefully slides into the passenger’s seat. “Drive.”

Suddenly he feels like a hostage. “Where to?”

Mikey smiles over at him, that same predator grin as before. “Don’t worry about directions. I’ll show you exactly where we need to go.”

Stiles glances in the rearview mirror, once again wondering if it’s too late to go back and find Derek instead. This could be a huge mistake, a fatal one if Mikey really is the one killing people. But what if he’s not the one?

Starting the engine, Stiles puts the jeep in gear and starts to drive.


	15. .Fifteen.

Stiles is glad for the steering wheel pressed against his palm. Maybe he grips the wheel harder than necessary, but it stops the trembling in his hand.

He glances over at Mikey in the passenger’s seat, but Mikey is facing forward. Calm, collected, and seemingly oblivious to Stiles’ nerves, like they’re just two friends out on an afternoon drive.

“Take a right up here,” Mikey says. Stiles abides and turns right.

Mikey is taking him into the woods to murder him. Stiles is acutely aware of this and he curses his curiosity for getting the better of him. He should have stayed at the school, in public, where it was safe.

But two people are dead. Is anywhere actually safe anymore?

Mikey points a pale finger outside. “Park there.”

Stiles turns into a parking lot. Not the middle of the woods, but… a cafe? There’s a sign that reads;  **TOW-AWAY ZONE. PARKING FOR** **_BITS AND PIECES_ ** **ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S EXPENSE** .

Wordlessly, Mikey climbs out of the car. He doesn’t even check to see that Stiles is following, but Stiles scrambles out after him.

The shop is small, scrunched between two other brick buildings. There’s a picture of a pie above the door and the sweet smell hits him as soon as Stiles steps inside. It’s a medley of different spices; cinnamon and chocolate and coffee and flour. It smells welcoming and warm and something about it makes Stiles relax a little. There are people here, eating and talking. This isn’t an ideal place to kill someone. Mikey probably didn’t bring him here to kill him.

Mikey steps up to the counter and a blonde boy in an apron smiles in greeting. “Hey there, welcome to Bits and Pieces. What can I do for y’all today?”

Mikey orders a coffee, as black as his soul, and then turns to Stiles expectantly. Is he supposed to order?

“Uh… Just coffee.” He wants to try all the different pies that are lined up in the glass case, but his appetite vanished as soon as he got into the car with Mikey. “Thanks.”

He watches as Mikey pulls out a wallet and hands over a few bills, flashing a brilliant smile at the boy. “Keep the change.”

When they have their coffee in hand, Mikey leads Stiles to a quiet booth in the back. Stiles’ nerves come back full force. Back here, in the secluded booth, the voices of the other customers are quiet. It makes Stiles feel alone again, and he doesn’t really want to be alone with Mikey.

Mikey mixes a packet of sugar into his coffee and stirs. He watches out the window as people pass by on the sidewalk.

The silence seems to last an eternity and eventually Stiles has to break it. “Why are we here?”

Mikey sips his coffee and smiles at him. “They’ve got the best coffee in Belleville,” he says. He shrugs and looks down at his mug, then back out the window. “It’s nothing compared to Chicago, but it’s good. Pete always likes the pie, too.”

“I don’t want pie,” Stiles snaps. The fingers on his good hand twist tightly around the mug. The ceramic burns his palm and fingertips. “I want to know why the hell you dragged me out here.”

Mikey finally looks away from the window and sets Stiles with an intrusive, curious gaze. It feels like Mikey is undressing him, probing him with just his eyes. Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “There are rumors about you at school,” he says. “People are talking about the dead kid you found. I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says.

Mikey continues to watch him.

Stiles clears his throat. “Is that all?”

Mikey sets his mug down, that twisted smile warping his face again when he leans into the table, closer to Stiles. “You intrigue me.”

Stiles isn’t quite sure to say to that, so he waits.

“Do I frighten you, Stiles?”

He swallows hard. He wants to say no, but in all honesty the answer is yes. Mikey Way scares the shit out of him.

Mikey just chuckles, taking the silence for what it is. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Stiles. But I’m afraid of you.”

A startled laugh escapes Stiles. “What?”

“I’m afraid of what you know.” Mikey’s smile slowly fades, leaving his expression cold and hard as stone. “I think you know more about me than you let on.”

Shit. Stiles shakes his head, looking down at his coffee. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“Yes you do.” His smile is back, pulling slightly at the corners of his lips. Not as threatening as before, but amused. “Tell me, Stiles. What am I? I want you to say it. Out loud.”

“Weird, Mikey Way,” Stiles snaps. “You’re fucking weird. That’s what you are.”

This time when Mikey smiles, there’s something different. Two pointed teeth extend from the sides of his mouth, sharp as razors and white as fresh snowfall.

Stiles feels chills running up his spine, the urge to flee, run like hell and never look back. But he breathes slowly, as much enticed by the fangs as he is terrified. “Did you kill Ed and Harry?”

The fangs retract like magic, withering until they disappear, and Mikey laughs. “Like I said, Stiles; you intrigue me. You’re fascinating.”

“Cut the bullshit, Mikey,” Stiles snaps. His voice holds the confidence he doesn’t feel. “Did you kill them?”

“No,” Mikey says. “I didn’t. Not that you’ll believe me. I know you already think I’m guilty.”

“If you didn’t kill them,” Stiles says. “Then who did?”

“Have you questioned your canine friends?” Mikey asks.

“They didn’t do this,” Stiles says, and he feels almost as sure as he sounds.

Mikey sits up straighter. “I don’t know who killed them,” he says in a low voice. “But whoever is responsible needs to be stopped before this gets any worse. These kinds of murders always attract the wrong people.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks. “The wrong people?”

Mikey frowns. “I mean hunters. People who want to kill me, the vamps, all of your new werewolf buddies. If hunters catch wind of this, we’re all fucked.”

It’s something Stiles hadn’t even thought of. If these creatures exist, vampires and werewolves and god knows what else, then of course people exist that hunt them. He needs to get back to Derek, warn him.

Abandoning his coffee, Stiles stands up and races out of the shop. He’s just reaching the jeep when he hears Mikey behind him. “Stiles, wait up!”

He turns just as Mikey grabs him, pushing him up against the side of the jeep and crowding in close. He doesn’t even have time to watch his life flash before his eyes because this is it, he knows, this is when Mikey kills him.

But Mikey doesn’t bite him. Instead, he kisses him.

His fight or flight response kicks in and Stiles doesn’t think, only acts, when he shoves Mikey back and punches him. The cast on his wrist cracks and pain shoots up his arm.

“Fuck!” Stiles yells. His eyesight goes blurry with pain and his chest heaves, struggling for breath.

Mikey takes hold of his wrist, holding it gingerly in his hands. There’s a smile on his face and he laughs softly. “I could have told you hitting me would be a bad idea.”

“Kissing me was a bad idea, too,” Stiles spits. “What the hell?”

Mikey chooses to ignore him. “I can help the with the pain.”

Stiles glares at him and through clenched teeth says, “You’re the reason for the pain.”

“Technically you hit me, so the pain is your own fault.” Mikey opens the door to the jeep and helps Stiles inside, then climbs in. “Like I said, I can help with the pain.”

“No,” Stiles growls. “I don’t need your help.” He tries to pull away from Mikey’s touch, but it only makes his wrist hurt more. He whimpers, biting down too hard on his lip. Mikey watches him expectantly until Stiles gives in, sighing and flinching when he says, “Fine. Yes. Just do something.”

“Okay, you’re gonna want to lay down,” Mikey says. He presses the lever on Stiles’s seat, causing it to recline. Then he leans over him. “There’s something in our venom that makes feeding just as pleasurable for humans as it is for the vampires,” he says. He pulls at the cast, already broken, until it slips off Stiles’ wrist. It feels like a tiger is trying to rip his entire arm off. “It releases endorphins that help ease pain. Pete calls it an orgasmic experience.”

“Wait,” Stiles says. He tries to sit up, but he feels weak and dizzy from the pain. His brain is lagging, slow and hazy, but something that Mikey said jumps out at him. “Feeding?”

But he feels helpless to do anything but watch as Mikey brings Stiles’ arm to his mouth and bites down on the wrist. And after that, Stiles doesn’t care because there’s a warmth in him. The best feeling he’s ever had washes through him. The protest on his lips becomes a moan as his head falls back against the seat and Stiles lets himself enjoy it.


	16. .Sixteen.

Stiles wakes up feeling tired and disjointed. He’s never been high, but he’s pretty sure this is what it probably feels like. There’s a weightlessness to him, a disconnect from reality, a surrealism that makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

A hand appears from somewhere in his peripheral and Stiles chuckles. A floating arm. That’s weird. Then his head lolls to the side and he sees that the arm is indeed attached to a person.

Mikey is frowning at him. “Are you awake?” The hand appears in front of his face again and Mikey snaps his fingers. The sound is louder than he thinks it should be and Stiles flinches away. It sounds like bells ringing in his ears.

“Here--” Mikey digs around in a brown paper bag and then tosses something at Stiles. It lands in his lap and he looks down, confused. “Eat.”

Stiles picks up the object, realizing it’s a burger. He tears the paper off and the smell hits him; he’s fucking starving. He takes one bite, then another, devouring half the burger in a matter of seconds.

“You should slow down,” Mikey advises. “You’re pretty drained. Your body’s still adjusting to the loss of blood.”

A sudden wave of revulsion hits Stiles. Everything seems to rush back to him at once and he remembers, with a flood of nausea, what happened. He sets the burger down in his lap and holds onto the door next to him, steadying himself like he might fall over even though he’s already sitting.

He can’t even look at Mikey when he says, “You bit me.”

Mikey seems unconcerned. “You told me to take your pain away and I did. You’re welcome.”

Stiles looks down at his wrist for the first time, realizing there’s a bandage wrapped around it. It still aches dully, but it feels a lot better. Mikey must have wrapped it while he was passed out.

“I didn’t ask you to bite me,” Stiles snaps. Another wave of nausea hits him and for a second he thinks he might actually throw up. “Am I going--” he pauses, swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat. “Am I going to be like you?”

Mikey laughs. “You really think one bite is all it takes to make you a vampire? If that were the case, the town would be mostly bloodsuckers by now.”

“That sounds unsanitary,” Stiles finds himself saying. “You’ve bitten that many people? Isn’t that kind of like sharing needles? Oh hell, am I gonna get a disease from this?”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Stiles.”

Still, it doesn’t sit well with Stiles. It makes his skin itch to think that Mikey’s teeth have been in so many people, and now they’ve been in Stiles. Holy heck, Stiles just like a vampire drink his blood.

“I know you’re having some existential crisis over there,” Mikey says, “And I don’t want to interrupt, but you should really eat. And drink this.” He picks up a clear water bottle and hands it over. A red liquid sloshes around inside.

Stiles frowns. “Is that blood?”

Mikey gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s Gatorade.”

Stiles finishes his burger, taking slower bites, and then sips at the drink. As he has a chance to look around, he realizes the scenery outside has changed. They’re not in the parking lot anymore, but he doesn’t see any landmarks that show where they are. Trees and fields stretch out in all directions and what looks like a lake in the distance. He frowns at Mikey. “Did you steal my car while I was unconscious?”

“Is it really stealing if you were in the front seat?”

“Yes,” Stiles snaps. “But then it’s stealing and kidnapping. Where are we?”

“Sterling Park,” Mikey says. “New York.”

Stiles gapes at him. “New York? Holy shit, you actually kidnapped me. What the hell are we doing in New York?”

Mikey just shrugs. “Relax, it’s only like an hour outside of Belleville. I figured you would have questions and I didn’t want your canine friends showing up.” Mikey turns in his seat to face Stiles, expectant. “I can drive you back to school if you would prefer.”

The offer is tempting. Stiles can still feel the lack of energy from having been Mikey’s afternoon meal. But Mikey was right; if he wants answers from Mikey, he needs to be alone, without interference from the werewolves. Stiles screws the lid back onto the Gatorade and turns to face Mikey. He doesn’t even know where to begin, but he thinks back to the conversation he had with Derek, questioning him in a way similar to now.

“Were you born a vampire?”

Mikey quirks an eyebrow, probably taken back by Stiles’ bluntness. There’s a curve to his lips, a sly smile, when he says, “No. We’re sterile, unable to reproduce. I was turned.”

“How long have you been a vampire?” Stiles wonders. He can’t imagine Mikey living hundreds of years ago; fighting in the Civil War, or throwing tea into a harbor, or even boarding the Titanic.

Mikey laughs. “A lot less time than you would think. It’s not like I’ve been living for centuries.”

“So how long?”

Mikey purses his lips. His eyes search Stiles’ face, deciding if he should answer or not. Finally he sighs. “It was 1981 when I was turned. I was sixteen. I guess I’ll always be sixteen.”

Stiles chews on his lip for a long time, wondering just how much information he should press Mikey for. Curiosity of course gets the best of him and he finds himself asking, “How did it happen?”

Mikey frowns, looking lost in memories for a long moment. He shakes his head. “It’s not really my story to tell. Maybe you can ask Gerard sometime.” He smiles then, but it looks pained. “He’s the one who started it all.”

Stiles wants to ask more, but Mikey seems to close the subject. So Stiles takes a different direction. “Back at the cafe,” he recalls. “You said you didn’t kill Ed and Harry. Were you lying?”

“No,” Mikey says. He leans back against the seat. “I don’t kill people.”

“You just eat them.”

Mikey sighs. “I need blood to live,” He explains. “It’s not any different from you needing food or water to survive. The only difference is I can’t get my food at the local deli.”

“So, what?” Stiles asks. “You just tell people you need a drink and then sink your teeth into them?”

“Of course not,” Mikey rolls his eyes. “Most people have no memory of me feeding on them, and I only take enough to survive.”

“How can you do that?” Stiles wonders. “Make them forget?”

“We call it cognitive deception,” Mikey shrugs. “It’s an ability we have, to manipulate what people think.”

“Mind control?” Stiles is torn between thinking  _ that is so fucking cool _ and  _ holy hell that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. _

“I prefer to think of it as compelling,” Mikey admits. “But we usually only use it when we need to eat.”

“Have you ever mind-fucked me?” Stiles asks, feeling both frightened and violated at the thought.

A smile appears on Mikey’s face and he shakes his head. “No. That’s one of the things that fascinates me. I can’t get into your head. Trust me,” Mikey laughs. “I’ve tried. But I can’t reach your mind. It’s like you’ve got some mental block that’s keeping me out.”

Stiles feels a small amount of relief and pride. Good. He doesn’t want any vampires in his head.

“What else can you do?” Stiles asks. “Can you turn into a bat, or mist? Can you fly?”

“No,” Mikey snorts. “Nothing like that.”

“What about stakes?” Stiles says. “Do they really kill you? Or garlic? Holy water?”

Mikey sighs. He’s starting to regret letting Stiles ask him anything. “Yes, stakes can kill us. Garlic is… sort of true. It’s like an allergic reaction, but we can deal with it. Silver has the same effect. And holy water has the same effect as the sun; It burns like hell, but it won’t kill us. We buy sunscreen by the truckloads.”

“Are there more of you?” Stiles asks. He notices Mikey keeps saying  _ we  _ but he’s yet to disclose just how many vampires there are.

But Mikey shakes his head. “Gerard, Frank, Ray, Pete, and Wes. He’s older than us. He found us after our sire died and took us in, helped us. We consider him our dad, in a way, but he’s not the one who turned us.”

“You were all turned by the same person?” Stiles wants to ask what happened to the vampire who sired them, but he doesn’t think Mikey will talk about it and he’s not really sure he wants to know.

Mikey hesitates. “No,” he says. “I’m the one that turned Pete.”

“Because you fell in love with him,” Stiles guesses.

But Mikey frowns. His expression flashes through a series of emotions before he shrugs. “It’s complicated.” When Stiles doesn’t say anything else, Mikey groans. “I don’t want to talk about Pete.”

“I’m going to tell him you kissed me,” Stiles says. “He deserves to know.”

“Pete loves me,” Mikey snaps. “But I can’t--” He breaks off, searching for words. His jaw tightens and his teeth grind together. “I’m not like Gerard and Frank. They’ve been together for over thirty years and every day they wake up knowing they would do anything for each other, knowing beyond any doubt that they will still have each other in another thirty years, in three hundred years, or three thousand. And I can’t do that because I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, let alone thirty years from now. I can’t promise him forever.”

The silence that fills the jeep feels tangible, like Stiles can reach out and wrap his fingers around it. Mikey’s jaw is still clenched and he’s glaring at his hands. “You changed Pete for a reason,” Stiles says. “Why did you do it?”

Mikey lets his eyes close. “We had this arrangement. It was like friends with benefits. I didn’t want to get close to him because we never stay in one place for more than a few years. But when he found out what I was, he wasn’t scared.” Mikey snorts, “He actually said he wanted me to bite him. Some vampire kink or something. But I got carried away. I took too much. He was laying there on the bed dying, and I couldn’t think. I was so fucking scared.”

When Mikey looks up at Stiles, it’s with desperate eyes. “I couldn’t let him die, so I turned him.”

“Because you cared about him,” Stiles says.

Mikey snorts. “No, because I was selfish.”

“You saved his life,” Stiles argues. “That’s not selfish.”

“I made him immortal,” Mikey says. “I took him away from his home and his family and I turned him into a monster. Just because I didn’t want to lose him.”

“That’s called love, Mikey. That feeling of not wanting to lose someone, wanting to hold onto them no matter what the consequences might be, that’s love. And sure, sometimes it makes you selfish, it makes you do stupid things, but you can’t sit there and tell me Pete hasn’t ever done something stupid for you, too.”

Mikey looks up quickly, then instantly back down. In that split second, Stiles sees a panic in his eyes that he can’t explain. Stiles hit too close to home. “What did Pete do, Mikey?”

Mikey doesn’t answer, doesn’t look up, and Stiles reaches a tentative hand out. He places it gently on Mikey’s shoulder. “Mikey. What stupid thing did Pete do for you?”

Stiles can see when the fight leaves Mikey, his body deflating, giving in. He’s a totally different person than he was twenty minutes ago. He rubs his hands over his face, a little too rough, and says, “There was this kid, last year, his name was Ryan Ross.”

Stiles tenses. The boy that went missing.

“He was hitting on Pete. It wasn’t a big deal, but he gave me bad vibes.” Mikey laces his fingers together, twisting. A nervous habit. “And one day he touched Pete, just put his hand on his arm, but I saw red. I think it’s a sire thing; I’m connected to Pete in a way you would never understand, and seeing someone else touch him… I lost it. I attacked the kid.”

Mikey pauses, collecting himself, remembering exactly what happened. “He threatened me, said he would call the cops and get me arrested, and I didn’t care. It didn’t matter what he said because it was all bullshit anyway. But Pete… he freaked out. He snapped the kid’s neck.”

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that’s the end of the story and then he lets out a long breath. “Pete killed him.”

Mikey nods. “He was scared of what Ryan would do to me, so he made sure Ryan wasn’t a problem.”

“Do you think…” Stiles trails off, feeling his gut twisting again at where his trail of thought is going. “Mikey, do you think it’s possible that Pete is involved now? That he might be responsible for Ed and Harry’s deaths?”

“No,” Mikey snaps. He narrows his eyes, once again the stone faced boy he was before. “No, Pete killed Ryan to protect me. He didn’t kill anyone else.”

“I’m not accusing him,” Stiles argues. “I just thought that the disappearance might be connected to the murders.” Stiles pauses, his thoughts taking him everywhere at once. His fingers tap anxiously on his knee as he contemplates how much he wants to tell Mikey. There’s a thread of trust between them now, much more than there was two days ago. Stiles isn’t sure how strong that trust is, but he figures if he wants to figure everything out, he needs to be totally honest.

“I think the person that killed Ed and Harry are trying to copy Laura Hale’s murder,” Stiles admits. “There are undeniable similarities, and the latest body was put right on Derek’s doorstep.”

Mikey just nods. “It would make sense,” He says.

“But if we’re going to figure out who’s copying the murder, I have to know who killed Laura Hale.” Stiles watches Mikey closely for any reaction he might have, because even if they are trust-building right now, he’s not sure how much Mikey really knows. “Do you know who killed Laura Hale?”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Of course I do,” he says, as if it’s obvious. And when he answers, it does feel obvious, like he should have known all along. Still, it sends chills down his spine when Mikey says, “She was killed by hunters.”


End file.
